Hesperides' Apple

• Many thanks to Naycit, for being such a rapid, efficient, and understanding beta!
  
  Disclaimer: I own nothing of Harry Potter's world, much as I would love to. I am eternally grateful to JKRowling for providing people with such a phenomenal world to read, write, and dream about. I hope she will not mind my borrowing her creations and twisting them to fit my own fancy, and, hopefully, yours. Characters with original names, on the other hand, are, much like their names, original--but if my story sparks your creativity and you long to write/draw/do anything (well, not *anything*) using my characters, go right ahead; just, please drop me a note about it.
  
  A lot of the research involved in this fic comes from www.wikipedia.com, www.pantheon.org, and, of course, www.hp-lexicon.org. However, as my knowledge of wordly things is nearly nul, please point out mistakes of any sort--it'll make the rewrite more enjoyable for everyone. That being said, ENJOY!!! :)

• 1. Ashes to ashes, the past relinquished

The sun had set. They were all here; their robes of this rich, fluid black that denotes wealth and standing; their faces imperturbable masks of concern for the widow and the heir; their gazes straightforward, hungry, belying the words of compassion proffered to the desolate but composed Narcissa Malfoy. As the darkness of the summer night fell upon the cemetery, shots of silver light sprang from the sides of every alley, illuminating row after row of marble mausoleums.

“He lived in darkness, making his life's goal to bring light to those who needed it,” began Draco Malfoy.

As was the custom he, first and only son of his family, would bid farewell to his father, gracing family friends, allies, and partners with a grandiloquent recollection of Lucius Malfoy's existence. In doing so, he would ensure commemoration for his father, and publicly retrace the footsteps he was expected to follow.

Generations of Malfoys lay in the lots that surrounded them, peacefully rotting under artfully engraved steles. Along them decayed generations of Blacks, Parkinsons, and other eminent families of the British Wizarding world. At the risk of defiling the purity of this succession of gilded cadavers, a woman leaned against the main sepulture of Antoinette Malfoy. A scarf enveloped her head, and she wore black robes as well. She followed the progression of the ceremony with mild interest, toying with a flower whose stem she whirled between her fingers.

The fountains of light flowed until Draco Malfoy's measured words came to a stop. Lines at the corner of his eyes and lips were the only indication of the pain, of the sadness in losing a father, of the ordeal that had already made him mature. The lone stranger was irreverently drawing figures in the dust on Auguste Malfoy's tomb. One by one, Lucius Malfoy's mourners dropped an ash-black rose at the foot of his mausoleum. They left in silence as rose-trees bearing dark flowers grew, their wiry trunks twisting and spikes peaking, until an intricate curtain of thorns and somber flowers formed a niche around the tomb. Only then did the woman abandon her games, swiftly nearing the sorrow that struck Draco and Narcissa Malfoy. She stopped behind the barrier of roses, where she listened for words exchanged on the other side.

“You behaved well, my son. You would have done your father proud.”

“I know.”

“You are, of course, also aware of what awaits you now?”

“Yes, mother. I fully understand the extent of my influence and the role I must now assume. Do not be concerned.”

“Yes, dear, I—“

A sob.

“Oh, mother…”

“I know, Draco, I know. I shouldn't— But after all we had gone through, darker times, Azkaban, our victory, his departure is so prompt, so… easy.” Narcissa Malfoy drew in short breaths between tear-drenched words. “I can't get used to the fact that he's gone.”

“Me neither.” For the first time, a hint of hurt pierced through the cool tone of Draco Malfoy's words. “And I almost feel… uncertain. We've been deprived of a man, mother—such a great man. We cannot fail him. Get a grip,” he continued, adding the childish need for comfort in his ensuing, “Please.”

Silence.

“We need to perpetuate the lineage,” Narcissa Malfoy began bluntly, her voice still strained, but the tension somewhat alleviated by the topic she wished to approach.

“Mother, not again. Now is not the time.”

“On the contrary, I am merely pulling myself together.” A shadow of a voice made her words melodious. “You know Lucius would have wanted you to find a wife, grant him heirs. It is your time to become Lord Malfoy and give our family a chance to live on after you.”

“I haven't found anyone worthy of being your successor, mother,” Draco claimed flatly.

“Flattery would get you anywhere were we not dealing about my potential grandchildren, Draco.”

The potential father grimaced.

“Could you imagine them with the Parkinsons' family traits? Or perhaps the Notts' manners? I hear Lucinda just got out of correctional school, and she is only eight years older than I am.”

“You are quite the gossip,” Narcissa mused. “No, I know well enough how you feel about the Notts, Bullstrodes, Auvignac, Gibberelli, Delacour—“

“Hmm, Delacour sounds nice…”

“They're near cousins though, I just got carried away,” Narcissa snapped as Draco laughed softly. ”So, you dislike all these girls, and you have already met all the marriageable British ones. Since we can't engage on a world tour to find you a wife—”

“We must abandon the search until I find it fit to resume,” Draco cut in.

“We will find you a wife like it has been done since the dawn of time,” Narcissa corrected.

“I'm going to string pieces of raw meat in front of the Manor and wait for the widest woman to show up, attracted by the stench?”

“Mail-order bride.”

“Oh, come on, mother. Surely you do not expect me to stoop so low?”

“I was actually expecting more seriousness on your part, given the circumstances.” She let the point sink in. “Hesperides' Apples has been arranging marriages since Antiquity. Their employees seek out descendants of pure-blood families living in Eastern Europe, most of whom have lost their fortunes but preserved the purity of their lineage. I could contact this agency; you never know what kind of Cinderella they might dig out.”

Draco grunted.

“It's up to you, of course, but I assure you it will be one of those girls, or one of the Harpies you have been to school with. Am I clear, Draco?”

A pause.

“Contact the agency, I'll make my choice then.”

“Good. I am glad to see you are once again up to the challenge. Now, take me home, I am tired of these sparks of silver and black roses.”

They stepped out of the niche formed by the flowers, Narcissa leaning on her son's arm. He waved his wand and all was dark again. They Disapparated. The woman stepped away from the plant wall. She threw her flower on the ground where thin strands of white began weaving between the rose walls, blooming into many rustic, orange flowers. Then she too Disapparated.

***

Ginny Weasley checked her coiffure in a hand-mirror one last time before climbing the stairs to the newly painted wooden door. Nothing, save for the clean and proper aspect of the house, could have indicated that it was any different from the neighboring ones. But when the door opened and Ginny found herself in a wide, luscious garden, she knew she had reached the right place. A wide patio of white gravel spread between terra-cotta walls, pierced in its center by an alabaster fountain. Vines unfurled from bright yellow jars here and there, and heavy wine grapes hung from the pergola above. A blue-lined door opened and a woman stepped out. Her impeccable salmon suit, coral jewelry, and the ease with which she crossed the gravel courtyard despite her stilettos were mere symbols of her refined power.

“How may I help you?” she asked in English, her mellifluous accent definitely Latin. Ginny flashed a distinguished smile.

“I'm looking for a husband.”

She handed her birth act and other documents establishing her as descendant of pure-bloods and some illustrious families. The woman's eyes gleamed.

“Of course, of course. Please follow me.”

Ginny was taken to a salon stretched with heavy carpets. Mirrors covered the walls. Ginny flattened the blond strands that escaped from her regal hairdo. She was invited to take a seat while the woman, who introduced herself as Hera Cornelli, disappeared in the attending room. A tea kettle and cups materialized on the painted-wood table. Minutes flew. Eventually, Mrs. Cornelli came back, apologizing for the delay. Ginny poured them both some tea as Mrs. Cornelli began.

“I have examined your credentials. As sole heir of a most dignified family, you are more than welcome here. Of course, you do understand that you are one of our highest ranked lodgers and, as such, are very valuable to us.”

“Certainly,” Ginny daintily approved.

“As such, however, you must be irreproachable, and we will ensure that you become the most educated and well-mannered future bride on the market.”

“Evidently.”

“Would you be opposed to a few weeks of mild training, so that we can appropriately—“

“Not at all. I am well aware of what I have to learn in order to become a suitable wife. I do have a request, though.”

Hera Cornelli's smile remained plastered on her face as she nodded.

“Given the recent, err—disgrace my family underwent…” Ginny Weasley cringed at the calumny that had just escaped from her lips and prayed that her family would understand. “…would it be too much to ask that my full name be disclosed not as Ginny Weasley, but as Ginevra Vassil? It is the name of my grandmother's mother, and not an infamous family at that.”

“But of course, Miss Vassil!” Cornelli screeched with relief. Ginny smiled gratefully, lowering her lashes in an appreciative and, she hoped, modest mimic.

“Now, we will take care of you. Katia!” Cornelli called. A short and exceedingly plump woman walked into the room. She had a very fine face, pale with pink blotches on her cheeks, and a delicate smile.

“Take Miss Vassil to her room.”

From Katia's ample and colorful dress emerged two girls, one barely taller than the other, and both somewhat smaller than Katia, who took hold of Ginny's suitcase. The little girls grabbed Ginny's hands. She flashed them a beautiful smile and followed them as Cornelli conjured a quill with which she observed, “Knows how to deal with children.”

***

Draco Malfoy sat in an armchair in his study, enjoying June's last cozily warm nights. In his hand, Narcissa's letter informed him of her latest occupations; she had decided to retire in the South of France for a while in an attempt to quench her sorrow and set her life straight. Her concern for her well being and his own welfare amused him, until he reached the paragraph were his future bride was mentioned. He calmly crumpled the letter and threw it in the chimney where it ignited. Nothing remained of it but a puff of white smoke smelling faintly of Narcissa Malfoy.

***

Ginny pulled out a small orange tree from her bag and set it in a corner of her room. A set of books followed, a beautiful bust of Nefertiti Bill had gotten her, the knight of an old chess board, the painting of an old family clock, and a few items of clothing. She arranged them around her room, fitting her meager possessions easily in the periwinkle closets and drawers. The painting she placed on her night table rather than on the wall.

Once this was done, Ginny glanced around. A delicate “Pouf” made her start; a note had appeared on her pillow, inviting her to dinner at eight. It was four. She unframed the picture of the clock, pulling out a black-and-white photography from behind it. The Weasley family stood there in the sheer force of numbers. Arthur Weasley was running toward them to make it in the picture in time. As much a part of the group as Ginny herself, Hermione and Harry were there, the former uncertainly installed in Ron's arms, both their faces the image of incredulous happiness. Ginny looked at them fondly, the months spent crying now preventing further tears.

She placed the picture back in its hiding place, resolutely setting out to discover her home-to-be for the following months.

***

Narcissa Malfoy, lounging on a reclining chair in her Provence house, counted the third week without an answer from her son and considered sending a Howler. She eventually decided in favor of a polite letter, urging him to contact the matrimonial agency, offering to do so herself. Lucius' widow let Draco understand that she would take matters into her own hands, and possibly not for the better, unless he decided to start acting like an adult.

***

At dinner that night, Ginny met the other inmates at Hesperides' Apples. They spoke English, a task which was easy enough for Ginny, but not for all of them. Ginny's acquired guttural accent and precise syllables, as well as command of Bulgarian, enabled her to pass off as a fairly educated Bulgarian young woman. Most were Russian, descendants of the Tsar family; others were Polish and Romanian. Their beauty was unilaterally astounding, their coarseness possibly more so. Except for those who had been in the agency for more than a month, many of the young women were utterly ignorant of the simplest etiquette. Where to place one's napkin, how to hold the fork and knife properly, how to drink discreetly and chew noiselessly, had been part of Ginny's earliest education, though clearly that was not the case for everyone.

Conversation was limited to the most mundane topics, while the inmates voraciously observed each other in attempt to catch a mistake, a flaw. Ginny found herself more fatigued by the tension and latent jealousy than by the effort expected in behaving well. Dessert was not offered.

The following day, Ginny was woken around dawn. She was assiduously hiding her freckles under a layer of foundation when one of Katia's daughters walked into the room and dropped a note and dress on her bed. Ginny barely had time to hide her Muggle make-up. She was told to get ready for the photo session. Though she had just joined the agency, the market could already welcome her; her training would be taken care of promptly enough.

Ginevra Vassil slipped in the dress and piled her hair up in the most sober and elegant chignon she could muster. The pale blue dress would have been a tasteless choice had she still been a redhead, but as it was, it only increased the pallor of her skin and aristocracy of her demeanor. She was ready for the photographs.

***

During the following days, Ginny Weasley underwent the most vapid, albeit necessary, transformation of her life. Cornelli, as the implacable Fairy Godmother, taught, trained, scolded, encouraged, directed, and exhausted the peasant girls under her rule. Going from inexperienced school-girl to high-class fiancée involved such a ridiculous amount of training that some of the girls chose to join other, less meticulous, agencies.

“Stand up straight.” “No, this is the fish fork.” “Keep your elbows off the table.” “You serve tea like it's lemonade!” “Good, very good with the children.” “You have good hands, I'm sure your husband will appreciate your massages.” “Surely you did not expect to wear this hat with those shoes?” “When thanking someone who is older and richer than you…” “The art of inviting is a very tricky one.” “I'm relieved to see you have some understanding of accounts.” “A ball organized in a square room? Are you out of your mind?” “When thanking someone who is older but poorer than you…” “Never speak of politics unless someone else wishes to, and even then, try to remain as silent as possible.” “No, no, no, pink roses cannot be matched with any other pink flower!” “When thanking someone who is both younger and poorer than you…”

Regularly, Muggle colorations enabled Ginny to maintain the platinum blond of her hair, while Wizard shampoos and conditioners, distributed by thousands by Katia, nourished and flattened her once savage hair. She managed to limit the amount of make-up applied, keeping her face as natural and painlessly lovely as possible. Although her beauty was nowhere near as overwhelming as that of some of the other mail-order brides, her sharp features had a delicate curve that wasn't without charm. Her well defined lips and high cheekbones introduced a certain unbalance to her otherwise doll-like face, but a set of wide, thickly lashed eyes reestablished an interesting harmony. During her days at Hesperides' Apples she learned that, should she chose to try, she could be startlingly attractive, a fact that had never troubled her before. It pleased her to discover this additional tool.

***

Draco Malfoy waved his wand. The first scrumptious blonde was followed by another whose assets were quite noticeable. He smiled, and had her image rotate, observed her curves from every possible angle, then decided she was too much like the ones before her. Draco barely repressed a movement of annoyance when he saw the following one, blonde as the others had been, seemingly as tall and skinny. Ironically, he welcomed the sight of her smaller cleavage and fine joints, long hands and narrow wrists being a trait not shared by her predecessors. Upon detailing her face, however, he was hit by a mixed feeling of affection and defiance. He quickly understood: on the one hand, she looked somewhat like his mother, at least in the elegance of her posture and sharpness of features; that had pleased him. On the other hand, he felt as though he had seen her somewhere, sometime when he hadn't lingered, but had seen her enough to feel like he knew her. For some reason he felt as though he should be cautious.

This only served to spur his interest. He noted her reference down, and then proceeded to the following contestants. By the end of the evening, he wrote to his mother, telling her to ask the agency for information on the woman named Ginevra.

***

Back on the Continent, Ginny was having a hard time mastering the subtleties of the waltz and cursing Austrian composers under her breath. Weeks of proper breakfasts, aristocratic brunches, and lady-like dinners left her hungry for home-made, calorific foods, while the growing enmity between inmates made her starve for even Hermione's sternest discussions. She could not correspond with the Muggle-born witch who, following the pure-blood's take-over in Great Britain, had not been able to become Medi-witch as she had hoped, and was instead accountant in the American branch of the London Bank. Because of the summers enjoyed together, of the years spent in studious proximity, and months of shared distress originated by the destruction of the Weasley family, Ginny missed Hermione sorely.

Yet there she was, learning how to waltz after having discovered the fox-trot and swing, eagerly waiting the time of salsa and tango. Her legs and feet had gotten used to weeks of switching from one dance to the next; she was building resistance to stilettos and endurance in the face of hours in the ballroom. Her annoyance never dwindled.

“Miss Vassil.”

Ginny interrupted the dance, curtsied to her ghost cavalier, and followed Cornelli out of the room. She was once again lead into the little salon where the two women had first convened of their arrangement. She had not been there in the three months of her stay.

“I was contacted about a week ago by the mother of one of the richest bachelors of Great Britain,” Cornelli began without preamble. “It goes without saying that I was most honored, and sent him, by means of his mother, a catalogue of our finest choices. You were one of them, and as it turns out, he has found you… intriguing, for lack of better word. He wishes to meet you.”

Cornelli paused, giving Ginny a significant, enquiring look.

“Are you still willing to be a mail-order bride, meet him, and from then on follow the flow of events, or would you rather back out of our deal and leave the house this evening?”

“Who is he?” Ginny could not refrain from asking. Cornelli glared.

“Curiosity is not becoming, my dear. I cannot disclose his identity unless you agree to meet him and, in the event that he likes you, marry him.”

Ginny Weasley looked her straight in the eye. It was now or never.

“I will meet him,” she said, willing her voice to be firm, “and marry him if necessary.”

Cornelli leaned forward, her smile victorious, and her eyes feverish. A quill and parchment appeared in front of Ginny. She stared at them. After a moment's hesitation, she took the quill and read the parchment, according to which she pretty much authorized Cornelli to sell her to the highest bidder. A knot formed in her entrails. She felt suddenly scared, more scared than when she had been in the cemetery standing ten feet from ex-Death Eaters, more scared than when she had accepted to join Hesperides' Apples following Hermione's suggestion.

She signed.

A flash of eager ferocity shot through Cornelli's eyes as she murmured, “Draco Malfoy.”

A wave of reassurance and pleasure chilled Ginny back to common sense.

“Your reputation alone can account for this, Madame.”

Cornelli was radiant.

“Mister Malfoy!” she repeated. “Can you believe it?”

“No, Madame, I am as pleasantly surprised as you are,” Ginny lied.

“Now, as is the custom, he will pay a starting fee to have you fully clothed, accessorized, and so forth. We should receive his donation shortly, at which time we will go to Paris and Rome to replenish your wardrobe.

Showers of Galleons danced before Cornelli's eyes.

“What am I worth?” Ginny enquired. “Has he asked about the price?”

“I believe that if you managed to pique such a man's interest, you are worth quite a bit. However, in order to assess how eager to meet you he is, we will see how much you are given for starters, and then extrapolate. Mister Malfoy is a generous man. If he is satisfied…” She gave Ginny a significant look. “…he will not count.”

***

Malfoy had been so generous, in fact, that for a few days his name did not leave Cornelli's lips. Clearly aware that this was the affair of her life, she indulged Ginny with private lessons, ensuring that specialists taught her the arts of massage, seduction, and love making in their smallest details. Ginny, who thought of herself as an attentive lover, found that she had a lot to learn, though her modesty prevented her from memorizing much of what Cornelli would have had her master.

They came back from France and Italy laden with dresses, hats, pants, jackets, capes, shoes, and, of course, the most various assortments of robes. Jewelry he would take care of personally, as he indicated in a note attached to his donation. Finally, after four months, Ginny was to begin anew. Needless to say, she was excited.

She had been shrinking her belongings and her newly acquired clothing when Katia's youngest daughter came to take her to Cornelli's office.

“So, here we are for the last time, mademoiselle, unless you fail to tempt the man and come back. Of course, should this happen, your value would diminish dramatically.”

“Of course,” Ginny gritted out.

“Now, upon stepping out of our office, you are beginning a new existence. Mister Malfoy will know not to speak of your past, or background, which he knows to be mediocre if not poor. He respects this enough to meet you—you should be flattered. As our parting gift to you, and symbol of your ascension in the social hierarchy, we will offer you a wand.”

Ginny gaped. Her own wand had once belonged to her grandmother. It was a short, rather stubby wand with dreadful character and unexpected bursts of power. For the first time, she was grateful to Cornelli and whichever tradition of the trade would grant her such a valuable gift. Cornelli clapped her hands. Katia appeared.

“Katia, wand please.”

From Katia's belly sprang the littlest copy of Katia Ginny had seen yet; she barely reached her knee, but was already as plump and joyful as her bearer. She took Ginny's hand and smiled enigmatically, smiled, and smiled. Nothing was said for a few minutes. Then the little girl let go of Ginny's hand, went to Katia, and pressed her hands on the round midriff. She then pulled a wand from Katia's belly, which found itself slightly thinned. Katia's voice rang for the first time in Ginny's memory; a high-pitched, mechanical tone.

“Weeping willow, 10 inches, supple, Dryad's hair,” she enounced. “A very earthy wand, stable, to be handled only by one with a profound and rich personality; mild water element, a hint of pliancy, the evocation of creativity and the capacity to adapt. It will be faithful to you alone, as you yourself are faithful to few.”

Cornelli shot Ginny a questioning glance, which she ignored. The young woman took her wand and gave it a swish, delighting in its weightlessness and density. A serpentine trail of smoke spilled from its tip, coiling upwards, until it opened its wings and flew away as an egret. Ginny turned to Cornelli.

“I cannot thank you enough—“

“On the contrary, my dear. Should this arrangement work, I will be thanked more than enough,” she slurred.

Ginny acknowledged this.

“Now that this is done, Katia, you may go. Ginevra, you are to spend a month in the company of Mister Malfoy. By that time, he will have decided whether he wishes you to become his, or not. You will, of course, reside in Malfoy Manor, where you are now going to go. A Portkey has arrived this morning by owl. You may leave whenever you feel like it.”

Cornelli gestured to an enormous gem deposited on the tea table.

“A sapphire. The first of many gifts to come. Now farewell, Ginevra Weasley, and good luck.”

Without further ado, Hera Cornelli stepped out of her office and possibly out of Ginny's life. Ginny took the stone without a moment's hesitation, feeling the familiar tug at her navel as she vanished toward Malfoy Manor.

-->

• Hesperides' Apple

• Chapter 2

Ginny appeared in a large and luminous antechamber. Windows and mirrors battled for space in the walls, filling the room with light. The walls, ceiling, and carpets were off-white, the lamps and chairs were golden. The young woman was debating whether to sit down on such pristine furniture when a ghost floated through a mirror and curtsied before her.

“Miss Vassil, welcome to Malfoy Manor. Master Malfoy has asked that you make yourself at home. Should you need anything, please call me; I am Grainne.”

Ginny looked at the ghost who, unlike many others, looked more golden than gray, and found her name adequate. She appeared to be in her late teens—not much younger than myself, thought Ginny—but her voice spoke of wisdom and resignation.

“Thank you, Grainne.” Ginny smiled at the ghost, who merely bowed her head. “Hmmm… Where's my room?”

“Right here. Please, follow me.”

As Grainne spoke, one of the windows opened wide, and Ginny was surprised to see that there came no additional sunlight, as she had expected. She followed the ghost servant.

“The guest room has been arranged specially for you, Madame,” explained the ghost.

“Mademoiselle,” Ginny corrected absentmindedly.

The room was, if possible, even whiter than the antechamber. A bed so large it would have fit the entire Weasley family stood in the center; above it, from the ceiling, dropped white veils like the petals of an upturned lily. In one corner of the room were a low-table, divan and poufs of amber-colored wood and linen; spread throughout the room, piles of cushions complemented the thick carpets, sprawling past the windows onto what appeared to be a balcony. Citrus trees of all sorts mingled their branches into the bedroom as well, and from their leaves hung round Chinese lanterns. The fresh smell of air and orange-blossoms floated everywhere.

“If you wish to access your desk-room, boudoir, or bathroom, simply walk to the door, it will lead you straight to where you want to go,” the servant continued to explain. “Shall I show you?”

“No, thank you, I'll be fine. Don't worry about me.”

Grainne appeared puzzled.

“Very well, mademoiselle. The Master invites you to rest until dinner, which will begin at six.”

Ginny muttered thanks as the ghost retreated. Only then did she notice that her bags had been taken from her, so she set about looking for her belongings. She walked to the door and it opened unto a closet-room about the size of the kitchen back at the Burrow. Mirrors lined every closet, though she only had to wish each to open for it to do so. Her clothes already lay neatly folded or hung amongst additional items that she was sure didn't belong to her—or hadn't until now. She sighed, stepped out of the room hoping to reach the bathroom, and she was there.

Turquoise walls and floors seemed to have no limit, no junction, save where steps were carved to lead into a pool.

Not a bathtub, a pool. Everything here must be to the measure of their ego.

As excessive as she found of this, she liked the thought of spending her evenings in such a relaxing room. There were copper amphorae and fountains hung all around the room, turning and tipping over in a silent motion, the only sound being the tinkling of water and scented oils into the pool or additional basins. Facing the window—Windows in the bathroom…Talk about not fearing curious neighbors.—, behind the “bathtub”, the walls gave way to a wide mirror. The mirror itself was cornered between towers of make-up on the one-hand, and towers of what appeared to hold jewelry on the other.

Ginny found her toiletry beneath stocks of powders and potions. She set about re-dyeing her roots, which already had this red tone that could be fatal to her future as Mrs. Malfoy. After a quick shower, she checked the sundial embedded in the wall. As it was only four, she decided to take a quick nap. A few steps took her to her immense bed, where she slipped between her sheets with unparalleled delight. Sleep took her immediately.

***

A house-elf knocked against the door of Draco's study.

“WHAT?” the lord of the manor asked, his voice laden with annoyance.

“Miss Vassil has arrived, master Malfoy. She has taken a shower and is now sleeping.”

“Good. Go away now.”

The house-elf scrambled away as rapidly as he could. Draco continued reading the account summaries he had received from his various firms. Finally, he pushed them back with a groan, frustrated. He wanted to go see her, see her as the flesh-and-bones woman she was, resting somewhere in one of his manor's beds. This girl who could become his wife….

Regardless of what she becomes, she is paid for this. Nothing more than a lucky courtesan. A high-class prostitute.

Somehow, reminding himself of this made him feel more composed. He would wait until six. Surely he had enough self-control.

***

Ginny was awoken by a terrified-looking ghost.

“I am sorry, mademoiselle, I am very, very, very sorry to wake you, but—“

“What time is it?” Ginny slurred.

“Five thirty, mademoiselle, I would never have awoken you had dinner—“

“Good Morgana!” Ginny hopped out of bed. “Thank you, Grainne! Shoot, I can't be late. Aaaaaah….”

She ran into her closet, caught a dress, and then disappeared in her bathroom.

Fifteen minutes later, Ginny emerged looking as lady-like as ever. Her soft blonde hair tied in a loose side-braid, she felt elegant without excess. She wore a boat-neck dress that hugged the contour of her body, stopping neatly at the knee; the dark fabric complemented the gold of her hair and eyes. Ginny hoped the Manor wasn't so big that her high-heeled sandals would give her blisters by the time she reached the dining room.

“Grainne?”

“Yes, mademoiselle.”

“Where's the dining room?” Ginny asked sheepishly.

“I will take you there, of course.”

The ghost floated out of the room, and Ginny followed her. She was taken through a series of dark and high corridors, all wooden panes and carpet. Here and there, the heavily ornamented handle of a door protruded, but Ginny quickly realized memorizing their arrangement would be of no use: they had bifurcated so many times already, walked passed so many doors, that she would never find her way on her own. Resigned, she followed, noting only when they descended a cascade of marble stairs. Grainne eventually left her in front of two doors that were as large as they were high. Ginny stood straight, kept her chin high, and approached her hand to knock. The doors opened.

Draco Malfoy stood facing the bay of open windows. He turned as she entered the Louis XIV salon, all in dark blue and gold. She cared little for the decoration, however, after she took in how he, by far, exceeded the descriptions and pictures she had obtained from magazines. She had had a hard time believing he had grown from the emaciated daddy's boy to the handsome Lord Malfoy. She had barely seen him that night at the cemetery; she did not know exactly what to expect, and could only stare. There was this air of feline aristocracy and casual strength about him, an air that, to her shame, sent chills down her spine.

I'm just like the rest of them, she thought, mortified.

Draco, at the other side of the room, saw her discomfiture and took great pleasure in it. He saw her mannered composure and, behind it, the asymmetry he had perceived when he had chosen her. He saw how easily she could be taken care of, held, protected. He smiled at those alien feelings and dismissed them without a second thought.

“Welcome, Ginevra Vassil,” Malfoy said. He took her hand to his lips, kissing it ever so slightly.

“Welcome, Ginevra Weasel”… How did he find out? Ginny panicked. She realized she had misheard and forced herself to calm down. If I can't keep my cool now, what's it going to be like later?

“Mister Malfoy.”

She smiled at him. He placed his hand lightly at the small of her back and walked her to the dinner table on the balcony. They had a view of the Malfoy parks, which appeared to have been designed by Truffaut himself. Draco helped Ginny take a seat, and then took his at the end of the rather long table. An uncomfortable silence sat down with them.

She looked around her, awed by the richness of it all, and particularly by the acres of grass and forest that stretched to no end. He sipped his wine.

“Do you like gardens?” Draco asked her suddenly.

She directed her attention back to him.

“Yes, I do. I mean, I'm not used to such a large park, but I used to help my mother in our garden. De-gnoming set aside, it was actually fun taking care of it, growing herbs and flowers.”

Gnomes aren't very Eastern European… Draco remembered from Care of Magical Creatures.

Argh… Must not mention anything having to do with low-class background, Ginny remembered from her lessons at Hesperides' Apples. But, a lenient smile having replaced his frown, she chose to pursue the conversation.

“So how big is it?”

“The park? In itself, about a thousand acres. But our grounds go beyond the gates and walls, of course…” Said walls couldn't even be seen from where they were. “…though we rent those terrains to those wishing to build there, or try to grow crops.”

“That's enormous!”

Draco smiled, acknowledging the fact.

“I could show you around tomorrow, if you wish.”

“Really?”

A splendid grin appeared on her face. He thought that if she was that easy to please, he could enjoy making her happy.

“Certainly. I have a few things to take care of in the morning, but we could spend the afternoon on the grounds.”

“That would be lovely.”

“Do you know how to ride?”

“A broom?”

Draco laughed a sharp, rapid chuckle that faintly reminded Ginny of her days back at Hogwarts. It wasn't condescending per se, it merely could have been.

“A horse.”

“Not at all,” Ginny said flatly, blushing but looking at him straight in the eye.

“Then you shall learn, and we will go slowly.”

The maitre d'hôtel appeared out of thin air. He bowed slightly and asked them what they would be having tonight. Draco nodded to Ginny. Uncertainly, she turned to the maitre d'hôtel and asked, “What do you have?”

“Anything,” he replied, nonplussed.

“Oh. Can I have, hmmm, a salad?”

“Certainly. And as an entree?”

“Uhh… Some duck, please.”

“That will be done, Mademoiselle. Master Malfoy?”

“Tuna tartar with vegetable curry, and then lamb cutlets, thyme sauce, with sauteed potatoes.”

“Yes, Master Malfoy.”

With that, he vanished. Ginny tried to seem blase. She wasn't convincing enough.

“Ginevra, it's easy to see that you are not used to all of this…” He appeared to search for the right word. “…luxury. Should you wish to, it will be easily to become accustomed to it. In fact, it's rather simple: whatever you like, whatever you could possibly want, you may have. All you need to do is ask for it.”

Ginny nodded, not knowing what to say.

“Now, what do you like?”

“Books,” she answered without hesitation, “books, drawing, and plants. Children,” she added instinctively, then blushed. “Music, I guess. Museums. Whatever is beautiful. What about you?”

Draco was not expecting this.

“I—flying… Speed, in general. Books, also. Good wine, and food. Beautiful women.” A pointed look to Ginny. “Expensive clothes. Expensive anything,” he concluded offhandedly. She had the feeling he had eased himself back into the expected image of himself.

“That's understandable,” she said somewhat more irreverently than was befitting.

He arched an eyebrow.

Damn it, I'm supposed to be seducing him, not settling family quarrels.

“I mean—“

“You meant exactly what you meant,” Malfoy interrupted her. “I like that. To a certain extent, of course,” he added with a sly grin.

Tactfully, their dishes chose that moment to appear.

“Bon appetit,” Draco murmured.

He was surprised to hear her answer. “A vous aussi.”

“Je crois qu'on peut se tutoyer?”

She laughed.

“A toi, Ginevra,” he said, lifting his glass.

“A toi, Draco,” she mirrored him, thinking that his name felt sweeter to her lips than the wine.

***

Ginny was proud of herself; she had managed to maintain small-talk during the length of dinner which lasted, with its succession of dishes, desserts, and coffee, until night had fallen. Draco had handed her over to Grainne at the door of the dining room, as he headed toward his study after a chaste baise-main. Ginny was somewhat disappointed at being so promptly dismissed, but thoroughly relieved that Draco, that night, had chosen not to live up to a certain aspect of his reputation.

Grainne led Ginny back to her room, where she offered to help her get ready for bed. Ginny gently sent her away. Alone at last, she once again placed the painting of the clock on her night-table. A spell released her hair from its languorous braid, and Ginny was relieved to feel the curls spilling freely down her back again. She ambled in her room, touching the furniture, paying attention to every detail.

In the room next to hers, Narcissa Malfoy sat, following Ginny's every movement as if they was no wall separating them. The older woman smiled at the young one's awe and innocence. She wondered whether she would be up to the task.

***

The following morning, Ginny awoke to the sound of birds singing. Fresh air blew into her room by way of the open windows. She sat up, stretched, and squeaked.

“Pardon, mademoiselle. I am extremely sorry, I did not mean to—“ Grainne stuttered.

“Would you stop apologizing?” Ginny demanded good-naturedly. “I just didn't expect you, that's all. What's up?”

“I was wondering what you would be having for breakfast?”

“Oh, don't worry, I'll go and get food myself.”

Grainne looked absolutely horrified.

“Oh no, mademoiselle. Lord Malfoy would be furious if he learned you had gotten breakfast yourself. Please, just tell me what you want and I will fetch it.”

“Then could I have a yogurt, and maybe some croissants and orange juice, please?”

“Certainly.”

With that, Grainne vanished. Ginny hopped out of the bed and skipped to the terrace of white stone as she had expected. A table and chair of amber wood stood there between the abundant foliage and flowers, seemingly sprung from no pot, but nonetheless covering part of the balcony. From where she stood, Ginny could see the more savage part of the park, with its pond partially engulfed by thick woods.

When Grainne returned, Ginny asked to have breakfast on the balcony rather than in bed. The ghost servant immediately made the necessary adjustments, which included bringing a light shawl for Ginny, who enjoyed her delicious breakfast. When she was done, her plates vanished and Grainne, as Ginny suspected was her habit, reappeared by her side.

“Miss, Lord Malfoy has instructed that you be warned of your agenda during the upcoming week.”

Ginny spluttered.

“Agenda?”

It was Grainne's turn to be surprised.

“Why, of course, mademoiselle. There are a few dinners scheduled and Master Malfoy would like to spend some time with you as well. Since he is very busy, however, he can only arrange to meet you at special times. He hopes it will not inconvenience you.”

Codename for: do as you're told, woman, thought Ginny.

“Okay, so what does my agenda look like?”

“Tuesday afternoon, visiting the grounds with Master Malfoy. Thursday morning, shopping with Mistress Malfoy—“

“Narcissa?”

“Mistress Malfoy, yes. Thursday evening, dinner at the Notts'.” Ginny had been expecting something of the sort, but she couldn't repress a grimace of disgust. “Friday, you will probably be invited to tea by either Mrs. Nott or Mrs. Derby. Friday evening, dinner with Master Malfoy's business partners at the Galileo. During the weekend, Master Malfoy has been invited by another business partner in the South of Italy; he has declared that you may join him if you wish, but that he will understand perfectly if you preferred to remain at the manor. Wednesday, inauguration of the MCCD…”

“Eh?”

“Malfoy Center for Children with Disabilities.”

“What disabilities?”

“Squibs, of course. They undergo treatments to help them activate the dormant magic, and once that is done, enhance it to the point where they can rejoin their family.”

“And if it doesn't work?”

Grainne looked at Ginny as if the mere idea was outlandish, but the consequence evident.

“They are Obliviated and placed in Muggle families, forever barred from the Wizarding world.”

Ginny's mouth curled in repulsion. Their own children? Sordid Pure-Bloods, she thought. How did things ever get so far?

“Of course, that is all they deserve,” Ginny managed to say. Grainne seemed noticeably relieved.

“Master Malfoy has also sent this.” She gestured to a pile of papers and magazines on one of the consoles in her room. “He said you might want to know who you would be dining and having tea with in the following weeks.”

Documentation, How kind. At least he's making sure that I don't make a fool of myself.

“How thoughtful of him,” Ginny gushed. “Well then, I'll give this a look later. I'm going to go get dressed, and after, could I get a tour of the Manor?”

“I'm terribly sorry,” Grainne apologized, as was her custom, “but I believe Master Malfoy would rather show you around himself, tonight. I may not…”

“Sure, of course. Why am I not surprised,” Ginny asked under her breath. “So what do I get to do, waiting for Malfoy?”

Grainne was flustered.

“Okay, never mind. I'll go shower.”

And so she did. Since I have all morning, I might as well make good use of my time. This morning, the bathroom was of a tender green, with branches of orchids sparkled throughout the room. Ginny shook her head at such a futile use of money. Nonetheless, she was glad to dip herself in the pool and giggled when bubbles began agitating the surface of the water. She tried to grasp one of the phials suspended above her head. Without her managing to touch it, it tipped slightly, and a stream of jasmine scented liquid trickled in the tub. Voluminous and light foam formed, reaching Ginny's chin. She found a place to sit. Then she rubbed her hands together in the foam, making sure her hands were coated with it, and started blowing huge bubbles. Delighted, Ginny laughed like a little girl.

***

“…next reception should be held soon,” Narcissa Malfoy told her son. They were walking down the corridor.

“You're right. When do you think would be a good time?” Draco asked.

“Well, it depends. How long do you want to test her for? We could wait one month, and she would either be wife or absent. But if we do it before, she might not behave appropriately.”

“You are the one who said they were the best agency, that their girls were the best trained.”

“And they are, which does not necessarily mean much. What did you think of her?”

“She's frank, and terribly innocent, of course. Very plebeian in her attitude with servants. She'll become used to her status though.”

“I'm glad she pleased you, at least for—“

A loud, crystalline laugh rang through the air. Narcissa shot Draco an inquisitive glance. He shrugged.

“A child,” Draco said, the hint of a smile on his thin lips.

Narcissa kissed him on the cheek, and murmured, “I'll start making arrangements for the reception.” Then she returned to her apartments. The lord of the house went to his office. Comfortably seated in the armchair of his desk, he let the stately greens, sepia woods, and leathers push him toward work. As he could not concentrate, he gestured to the tapestry at opposite side of the office. It moved forward, stopping before his desk.

“Ginevra,” he enunciated.

Immediately the tapestry's medieval women and unicorns faded away while the green of Ginny's bathroom came into focus. Buried neck deep in the bubbles of her bath, the young woman blew orb after orb from between her thin hands. When she realized she could stick them together, an attempt to build a tower of bubbles filled her with mirth.

In his office, Draco was amused. He was less so when she reached for the top of the soap tower, and her left collarbone and breast peaked from under the layer of foam. He waved his hand sharply as unprecedented warmth crept in his face. The vision of Ginny disappeared. Malfoy finally began reading the reports he had on his desk.

***

When Ginny emerged from her bath, refreshed and lightheaded, she found a beige jacket and riding breeches, a pair of black boots, and riding cap. She matched the pants with a simple white blouse, attached her hair in a thin crown around her face, and once again hid her freckles under foundation. She then headed for the door, determined to at least find the library. She found herself face to face with Narcissa Malfoy, pale and incredibly beautiful in black robes.

“Hello, Ginevra. I am Narcissa Malfoy, Draco's mother.”

“Mrs. Malfoy,” Ginny stammered, curtsying. “I am pleased to meet you.”

“Likewise,” retorted Narcissa. “I am glad to see that Hesperides' Apples responded so quickly to our demand. I do hope your service will be of such quality here.”

Ginny blushed but did not avert her gaze at such direct mention of her origins. Narcissa's cool blue eyes examined her, making no pretense of hiding her gesture's offensive nature. She appeared satisfied by the girl's countenance.

“And where were you off to?” Narcissa asked.

“I was trying to find the library. I haven't brought reading material with me and miss it.”

“So you went looking for some yourself? Being curious is not always very safe,” Narcissa admonished her.

Bloody hell. That's twice in two days, Ginny realized. I should be more careful.

“What about the documents my son sent you on the different families you'll be meeting soon? Is that not reading material?”

Ginny felt torn between the desire to disappear under ground and stick Narcissa's patronizing tone down her throat. She tried to keep her tone polite when she answered, “It helps me to situate the people I'm reading about. My understanding of Great Britain's Wizarding families, politics, and current situation being limited, I was hoping to find a broader picture, and then place them in context.”

Narcissa liked Ginny's repartee.

“Follow me,” she said, wheeling around so that her appreciation could not be seen.

Ginny had no time to savor her small victory. She tried memorizing the way to the library, and was happy to see that she could probably find her way back. Narcissa left her in front of the library.

“If you know what's good for you, do not go `fact-hunting' in the Green Area. Novels are in the Blue Area, poetry in the Orange. As to juicy pieces on the Notts, you may find some in the Yellow Area. Lunch will be at twelve sharp.”

Ginny pushed the doors of the library open. She held back a sigh of delight upon discovering the rows of bookcases that touched the high ceiling. A semi-circular veranda encased two wide armchairs and pouf of dark velvet, and there were a few desks equipped with lamp and multiple shelves. Ginny immediately went for the Blue Area, not wishing to be found at fault in the Green Area.

What could possibly be there that I'm not supposed to see? She nonetheless wondered. Probably Lucius' devilish books… Or maybe…proof of the family's Death Eater activity?

It took her a superhuman amount of restraint to not go ferreting. The extensive collection of books resting in the library eventually managed to catch her attention, so that she spent the better part of the morning marveling at the titles rather than reading any. An invisible clock, aware of her obligations, graciously reminded her of the time at a quarter to twelve.

***

“Draco tells me you like to paint.”

“I have actually never gotten around to painting, though I do enjoy drawing. I feel that watercolors are the next step. They seem like an appropriate transition between charcoal and oil-paint.”

“There's also acrylic,” Draco pointed out, looking thoroughly bored by the turn the conversation was taking.

“Acrylic? Not as fluid as water-color, but not as rich as oil-paint; it is really a common, bastardized paint if you ask me,” Narcissa said.

“Well, I have tried neither. I suppose I'm bound to find out, eventually.”

“How do you feel about sculpture, then? I myself enjoy the product, but the whole process—“

Ginny was surprised to find Narcissa so thrilled by manual arts. Since it enabled Draco's mother to momentarily drop the frigid countenance of Malfoy matron, the young woman eagerly launched herself in the discussion. The arrival of desert came like a divine intervention for Draco. As Narcissa suggested that they go have tea in the salon, Draco objected.

“Really, mother, we should not linger,” he said, managing to appear contrite. “Ginevra has to learn how to ride, and if we want to visit the property, we'll need the entire afternoon.”

“You don't know how to ride?” Narcissa asked, shocked.

“Well, we couldn't exactly affo—“ Ginny began without shame.

“So we'll get going,” Draco cut her off. “Mother, good afternoon.”

He seized Ginny by the elbow, leaving her to smile hurriedly at Narcissa as she followed, and dragged her out of the dining room. Narcissa stared pensively at the wine glass.

“James will take you to the stables. I will be right over.”

Indeed, the ghost butler materialized next to Ginny and bowed, inviting her to follow him. She was growing tired of the servants' obsequious bowing but knew better than to tell him not to bother. James noiselessly led her along the usual succession of corridors and staircases. The stables were, as every other part of the Manor, of gigantic proportions and as picturesque as she could have imagined them. Even the hay seemed golden, and the wooden stalls and beams gleamed from being so polished.

Ginny knew nothing about horses. In fact, she didn't know much about what was expensive, but if she found something beautiful, then she assumed it to be of good value. By those standards, much like by their actual price, Malfoy's horses were of great value. She petted them one after the other, admiring the luster of their coat, the roundness of their flanks, and the nervousness in their movement. One of the animals particularly caught her attention. Of a tender beige hue, its head and paws were lighter, almost white; the horse wasn't as strong as the others but appeared energetic and nimble. Ginny patted its head and neck fondly.

“It's a good pick,” Malfoy's voice rang in the stables.

She turned to face him, finding him decked in riding clothes. She liked the contrast of his white shirt and black riding breeches. He held his riding cap under his arm, but hung it on a hook, grabbing two quirts instead.

“What's his name?”

“That's Suède. He's a calm one. Let's wait outside while the elves deck him and Mona.”

Ginny followed him through the stable door, which led immediately onto the grounds. The impeccably cut grass felt elastic and thick under their feet. The air had this crisp and cool quality to it that reminded Ginny of some mornings back at the Burrow when her mom forcefully sent her to pick berries from their miserable hedge.

The Burrow… Oh, mum…

A pang of sorrow violently shot through her. It was all she could do to avoid crying. Beside her, Draco saw her face fall suddenly and her eyes glass over. He had been with women long enough, and had made them cry often enough, that he braced himself for at least a single, valiantly erased tear—those were the ones he hated most. But not one drop escaped from her momentarily closed eyelids. The soft thumps of their horses' hooves kept Ginny in check.

She turned around and stared at the horse, fully equipped, looking quite taller than what she had seen earlier.

This is going to be amusing, she thought bitterly.

“Need a hand?” Draco asked.

“I might, yes,” she answered, grateful.

She stepped in the stirrup and pushed. Draco, his hands on her hips, accompanied her movement, hoisting her on the horse.

“Thank you!” Ginny said. “Wow, everything seems so small from here….”

“That's what it feels like, being a Malfoy,” Draco said, agilely climbing on his horse. He was smiling slightly, but his eyes were dead serious. Ginny did not know what to say. Draco pushed his horse forward; Ginny's followed slowly.

“How's that for a pace? Think you can stay on the horse?”

She made a face at him.

“Sure I can. It doesn't seem nearly as hard as riding a broom,” Ginny added as condescendingly as she could.

“Quidditch?”

“Of course. You're not the only one who enjoys speed, though I prefer the Chaser position to being Seeker. The bursts of speed are rarer.”

Seeker? I never told her I used to play Seeker back at Hogwarts—and that was the only time I ever played Quidditch in public....

“But the thrill is so much more intense when you're fighting, one on one, for the Snitch. It's not about the team anymore, it's only about who, between the two Seekers, is the fastest, the most accurate, the best.”

“The whole point of Quidditch is that it's a collective sport,” Ginny retorted. She appeared amused by his reaction, but her ideas on her favorite sport were long set. “Whether in victory or in defeat, it's not about who caught the Snitch or let a few Quaffles slip past. Coordination and entente are what make it such an amazing sport. At least I think so,” she quickly amended, lest he find her too assertive.

“I'm sure both our opinions are valid,” Draco conceded politely, looking like Ginny couldn't have proffered a stupider absurdity.

“It's just a matter of education,” she countered, shrugging.

Silence slipped between them as they crossed the grassy area of the park. Ginny's eyes devoured the landscape; Draco glanced furtively at her.

There's something familiar in her face… What is it?

Their horses, under Draco's subtle guidance, made their way toward the woods. As soon as they had slipped between the trees, the air got noticeably more humid, almost chilly. Ginny appeared not to notice, making no move to cover herself or cast a warming spell as Draco knew Pansy would have done. If anything, the woman at his side appeared at home in the woods, holding out her hand now and then to caress a tree trunk.

“You have beautiful trees,” she said. “It's a pleasant sight.”

Draco nodded noncommittally, well aware of how pleasant the sight was; her pretty face bore a calm, happy smile. Because of the narrowness of the path, they were riding very close to each other. The occasional brushing of their legs sent characteristic chills through Draco's body.

“Oh look,” Ginny said, oblivious to the effect she was having on Draco, “a clearing! We could have a picnic.”

Draco snorted.

“A picnic? That's preposterous.”

He did not bother to elaborate, finding the reason obvious; Ginny paid him no attention. She had been distracted by the sound of dribbling water.

“And there's a stream, too. This is going to be so much fun!”

“Oh yes,” Draco said sarcastically, “eat and bathe amidst toads, mosquitoes, and other animals. How charming.”

Ginny shrugged, having dealt with Malfoy's contempt for longer than he knew, but determined to enjoy, if alone, the charming surroundings provided by the woods. Draco, obviously bored by the visit of a property he knew by heart, gave her facts to chew on. Seeing her lack of interest, he led their horses out of the woods, again unto the great lawns, past alleys of geometrically cut bushes and ornamented fountains, back to the stables. Draco helped Ginny off Suède as easily as if she had been a child. Instead of diving back in the polished shade of the Manor, however, Draco took her around the house, by foot this time. She marveled at the pristine statues, columns and volutes that adorned the already impressive façade, until a brutal explosion of colors took her breath away.

“My mother's garden,” Draco said simply, pleased with her reaction but looking as placid as ever.

Whereas the Manor and its grounds reflected the triumph of man over nature, here vegetation let its creativity run loose. Plants shot from the soil, poured from pots, trickled from trellises, with flowers and leaves bursting open like stars and trees so covered in fruit their branches hung to the ground. A sugary scent floated, so pungent and rich it was almost tangible.

`Magnificent,” Ginny murmured, dazed.

“The elves can tend it according to your wishes,” Draco offered pleasantly. Ginny's laugh caught him by surprise.

“Tend it for me?” she giggled.

“Of course, yes,” he snapped.

“Don't you think I can do it on my own? Where would the pleasure be if I let house elves take care of the plants in my place?”

“You get dirty,” Draco said, clearly disgusted.

Preposterous, she remembered his saying earlier. Dirty… Filthy… So many things that he deems inferior, unworthy of him.

“But you get sweaty and muddy playing Quidditch, too. Would you rather someone else played instead of you?”

“Quidditch is a noble sport, Ginevra. Working in mud is not,” Draco said sternly.

She knew better than to press the point. As he showed her his mother's garden—or his mother's house-elves' garden, as Ginny from now on thought of it—she dutifully and repeatedly expressed admiration for the entire property. More than once she bit back a cheeky remark, having quickly realized he did not take to impertinence. She slipped back into the role of Ginevra Vassil. Poised, refined, she spoke no more of picnic, gardening, or eating oranges right from the tree, and stuck to the polite conversation he could expect from a member of Hesperides' Apples.

Draco faintly perceived a change in her attitude. He couldn't bring himself to figure out which young woman, of the bright and direct, or the sophisticated one, he preferred.

***

They had dinner on the terrace again. Ginny, who had looked up the most delicious and complex dishes imaginable in the Malfoy library, ordered gourmet dishes from the butler that night, agreeably surprising Draco. She drank easily and with pleasure, so that by the end of the evening she had regained the ingenuous confidence lost earlier that afternoon. However, he could not manage to stir her from acceptable topics of discussion, and didn't find out additional details about her past life. And though he had promised himself he would not care, that if she suited him he would be satisfied with the new woman the agency had sent, he found himself longing to know more about her past. In fact, rather than knowing more about her, he wanted to know things about her that she would not want him to know.

The clock struck eleven.

“Ginevra, I hope you will forgive me. I have some business I have yet to take care of and—“ He trailed off delicately.

“Of course,” she replied, her tone as sweet and unctuous as his had been courteous. “Thank you for spending the day with me. It was a delightful time.”

“Likewise. Good night.”

“Good night.”

Again, he escorted her to the door of the dining room. A baise-main, and they were off in separate directions. This time, Grainne did not show up, but torches lit the way back to Ginny's room. She appreciated the gesture.

-->

• Hesperides' Apple

• Chapter 3

On Wednesday Draco was nowhere to be seen. He had left Ginny a note, warning her that he would be away and wouldn't return until Thursday night, when they would attend dinner at the Notts'. She spent her day in the library, reading the assigned material on the families she would be meeting later that week.

Rich, pure-blooded, prestigious, cocky to death… That's easy enough to remember.

So Ginny had moved on to information about the Malfoys. She could not find an era left unmarked by their cruelty and domination, though several anecdotes implied they could demonstrate, when pleased, outstanding generosity toward friends and followers. Of French origin, their family had thrived since Vercingetorix's times, siding shamelessly with the Romans to import some civilization into the brutal Gaulish tribes, accompanying Charlemagne in his conquests, funding Francois Premier's castles, and intervening in Louis XIV's most private cabinets. The 1789's revolution had marked the end of the Malfoys' involvement in Muggle affairs. The Male-Foi had emigrated to Great Britain, switching their name to the less disparaging Malfoy, bringing with them enough gold to build a dozen Versailles and arrogance to shame any prince.

Blah blah blah. That's not going to help me win Master Malfoy's heart. Now, if only I could better understand that silly labyrinth of a castle....

Sure enough, Ginny found a booklet with maps of the Malfoy Manor. Checking the index, she managed to locate “Ginevra Vassil's room” on the same floor as “Narcissa Malfoy's room”, and above, the “Main Library” and the “Dining Room”. There appeared to be a few ballrooms, several tearooms, many guest chambers, additional and specified libraries, and a plethora of rooms whose use Ginny would never have thought of. She looked up “Master Malfoy's room” and his office; rather than turning to the page, however, the book merely mentioned “Third floor”. Ginny could not find the corresponding plan. Visibly, some areas of the Manor were still off boundary.

Ginny had lunch alone. She attempted to chat with the maitre d'hotel, who merely nodded politely in answer to her questions. Resigned, she asked him where the broom shed was; he indicated someone would walk her there after the meal. Grainne showed up and silently took her to the broom shed. “Shed” was a pitiful term for what looked more like a museum room. The brooms rested on cushions under glass boxes, a small descriptive presenting each of them. Ginny learned that all brooms were not necessarily unisex. The Veela's Rage was without doubt the fastest feminine broom, but its pearly white handle and golden tail twigs painfully reminded Ginny of Fleur.

“We'll name zem Gala'ad and Guenièvre, after you, Geeny.”

She wondered if her rage had been of any help when the Death Eaters had attacked The Burrow. But what could a seven month-pregnant woman do against blood-thirsty brutes, even if she was a quarter Veela, even if Bill had probably protected her to the end? Ginny fought the lump of pain that suddenly burned inside her throat, urging her to stop, urging her to cry, urging her to abandon the Manor and find a place to die. She looked around for comfort.

Cleansweep 11, handle of Spanish oak with anti-jinx varnish, in-built vibration control, 0-70 in ten seconds.

“All of them?” A muffled cry from Ginny's throat.

She has just Apparated in Hermione's flat. Hermione nods, or shakes, Ginny can't tell. Her sister-in-law's face is hidden by her hair and hands, but she knows it to be ravaged by tears, fear and anger.

“Ron,” Hermione gurgles between sobs.

Shooting Star 200, maple wood, 85 mph, strong and stable.

“They found Charlie's broom, the new Shooting Star. That's how they figured he was…” Hermione explains painfully. “They couldn't make out the bodies, it was such a mess!”

Her voice hitches. She closes her eyes and wills the vision away. At her feet, Ginny has curled into a ball and chokes on dry sobs.

“The Order knew exactly who was there. But everyone else thinks you're dead.”

“I am dead.”

Ginny calmed herself. A silk handkerchief popped out of nowhere, marked with the Malfoy crest. She wiped the tears out of her lashes, and then made for the sleek Melusine 2002. The glass case opened as the broom flew into Ginny's hand. In a second she had mounted it and was flying above the Malfoy property. The wind slapped her face with increasing violence as she flew faster, seeking the point where the cold would numb her and her chilled self would stop feeling, if only for a moment.

Ginny came back at dusk. Her hair was windswept, and her hands and face red from the cold, the area around her eyes particularly so. She felt purged, however; the feeling was well worth the look of shock on Grainne's face and Narcissa's disapproval, she thought, as she saw the curtains of Mrs. Malfoy's window close. Ginny hurried back to her quarters, glad to find the bathroom gray with steam and smelling of homely lavender. She dove in her bath and emerged only to head for bed.

•••

“Are you out of your mind?” Narcissa Malfoy snapped. “Pink would make her look like chewed bubblegum. Have I ever taken anything pink at your shop? No! And I'm not about to start now.”

The head assistant of Donkey Skin Dresses sent her aides digging for additional dresses. Ginny stood on a small platform in her bra and knickers, pink in the face but unable to duck for cover. Narcissa had already chosen an extremely light and summery white dress; a tight-fitted tube dress; a tender gold satin dress with very low neckline and bare back; a strapless, dark blue dress flaring at mid-thigh; and still she showed no sign of stopping. A young woman came back bearing a dress of savage silk. The head assistant waved her wand and the dress autonomously slipped on Ginny, who felt immediately more at ease.

Narcissa glanced appraisingly at the empire-waistline, at the elegant slope of the dress, and smiled at the extremely high slit on the side.

“Storm colored dress, Mrs. Malfoy, in the spirit of the dress offered by her father to Donkey Skin.”

Indeed, the dress seemed to wrap Ginny in a dense and angry fog, and the streaks in the silk were like gusts of wind. A delicate lightning fizzed along Ginny's body. Narcissa saw the young woman's sugary-brown eyes turn amber with delight as the first genuine smile of the day lit her face.

“Impeccable, we'll take that one too. Now, do you have—“

Ginny found herself half-naked again, passionately willing this shopping spree with Narcissa to come to an end. Suddenly, she felt something soft crawling on her skin. She looked as a flower of lace placed on her shoulder burst open, and quickly covered her torso, hips, and legs.

“Nelsha,” the head assistant explained, “are very rare cloth creatures. This one is a Lace Nelsha, but some are of velvet, silk, satin, and so forth. Once it is placed on your skin, all you have to do is think of the cut and color of the dress you want, or even of the event you will be attending, and the Nelsha morphs to match your needs.”

Narcissa had clearly been thinking for Ginny, as Ginny found herself in a skin-tight envelope that didn't stretch far above de knee and squared around her breasts.

I wish she wouldn't choose the dresses with such low necklines.

Being dressed in lace did not make it any easier—it was thick, and beautiful, and brown, but it was still lace.

“Excellent choice, mother,” came a low drawl from the entrance of the trying room.

Horrified, Ginny wheeled around. Draco, with an appreciative smile on his lips, looked her straight in the eye, well aware that checking her out as he had been for the past minute would not have pleased Ginevra.

“Yes, I'm rather satisfied with what I found for her. What do you think, Ginevra?”

“I liked the storm one a lot,” Ginny said.

“That goes without saying,” Narcissa said matter-of-factly. “We'll take them all, then.”

In a flurry of activity, the shopping assistants disposed of the unwanted dresses and started folding those the Malfoys would buy.

“I'm so glad we no longer shop at Madame Malkin's,” Narcissa said as she took Draco out of the changing room.

Ginny was only too glad to slip back in her sand-colored robes. She walked out of the fitting room to see the Malfoys waiting for her outside Donkey Skin Dresses.

“Thanks a lot,” she called to the surprised shopping aides.

“—back to the Manor,” Narcissa said as Ginny emerged from the shop. “Enjoy the evening.”

She Disapparated. Draco slipped Ginny's arm under his and they started walking.

“So, how was your trip?” Ginny asked.

“Good,” Draco said.

She looked at him expectantly, waiting to hear more, but he clearly wasn't as voluble as her own father and brothers had been when returning from work. Nonplussed, Ginny stared around her, pretending to discover Diagon Alley, but truly happy to be there again. Memories of shopping for school supplies with her family filled her mind, and she smiled sadly. Draco perceived this sudden melancholy.

“What did you do yesterday?” he said.

“I researched a map of your Manor,” Ginny said.

He chuckled.

“And then I went for a ride.”

“On Suède?” he asked, surprised.

“No, on the Melusine 2002. It felt… good,” she completed, incapable of describing the frigid cold and abandon she had felt, or having the pain of losing her family washed out of her by the elements.

They entered Glauce's Jewelry. A man with white hair and androgynous features strolled toward them.

“Mister Malfoy,” he greeted them, bowing slightly. “Miss—“

“Malfoy,” Draco filled in.

The salesclerk let a spark of curiosity slide through his eyes. He bowed to Ginny as well, who murmured, “Hello.”

“Creon, I—We are looking for jewelry to match newly bought dresses,” Malfoy explained.

Draco handed Creon what looked like a small, round mirror. The salesclerk invited his customers to sit on a sofa and placed the mirror on the table before them. An image of Ginny in the white summer dress appeared. Creon nodded to himself, waved his wand, and three boxes floated toward them. Ginny gaped when the boxes opened to reveal, one a necklace, the second bracelets, the last rings, all in what appeared to be diamonds.

“No, not diamonds,” Draco said lazily. “The dress requires something that's fresher… Pearls?”

A new set of boxes was soon hovering about them. For each dress, Creon suggested and Draco gave his assent, eventually turning to Ginny for the final approval. She felt Draco's breath stop for a millisecond when he saw the image of her in the gray dress.

“This requires Aquilo's Saphires,” Draco said. “With white gold, if you have.”

Creon opened a box, and from it soared three oval stones, held together by whorls of a silvery metal. Ginny watched, fascinated, the nights of tempest enclosed in the sapphires so dark they were almost black.

“I am sorry, sir, but this is platinum,” Creon murmured.

Draco dismissed the apology, pleased with the hunger he saw in Ginevra's eyes. He could tell she was entranced by the stones rather than by their value when she turned her eyes, wide with disbelief, to him.

“Platinum?” she whispered.

He nodded confidently. She sat back in the sofa, stunned. Draco proceeded with the choice of jewelry, picking a necklace and earrings that looked like ivory needlework for the Nelsha dress. Ginny merely nodded, still lost in thought. Only now did she begin to realize that there were no price tags on the jewelry, and that he had chosen costly gems and metals. And though she had no precise idea how much each bauble cost, she knew that a single earring with the Aquilo sapphires cost more than all the Weasleys had ever possessed.

“Ginevra, come,” Draco interrupted her reverie.

She took the hand he offered and followed him out of the shop, with Creon thanking them repeatedly. Draco did not pull out so much as a Knut. The commotion and noise reigning in Diagon Alley brought Ginny back to her senses. She stopped, turned to Draco, placed her hand on his jaw near the ear, and kissed him softly on each cheek.

It was his turn to be stunned, by the gesture rather than by the streak of cold fire that shot through him. Behind them, a witch giggled.

“Thank you,” Ginny said simply.

He smiled, between satisfaction and happiness. He took her arm again.

***

Draco sat in an armchair in the vestibule, clad in black dress robes. A clock struck five thirty, its rings soon joined by the soft thumps of high-heels on carpet. Draco looked up to see Ginny walking down the stairs, the bottom of her dress billowing below mid-thigh. Her long hair tied in a loose braid partially hid her sapphire-and-gold earrings. She only wore a heavy golden band for bracelet, having left her neck and shoulders deliciously naked.

“You look beautiful,” Draco said, amused by the fact that his dates usually greeted him with that same sentence.

The heir of the Malfoys had been with women more beautiful than Ginevra, with women who were richer, or more sophisticated, and that surpassed her in every possible way. Yet, he found himself liking her poise and simplicity, and her earnest retorts even more. She hadn't thrown himself at him yet, nor taken for granted what he had offered her: two details that definitely set her apart from a number of the women he had dated—or, to put it more bluntly, slept with.

“Thanks,” she said, smiling brightly at him. “I've been saying this a lot lately, haven't I?” She laughed. “But yeah, thanks a lot, for everything.”

On the contrary, he thought. Thank you for tonight, and the night after that, and the following night…

He managed to pull a tender smile from his predatory thoughts. Outside on the porch, a dark carriage awaited them. They sat facing each other, and Ginny observed the landscape as they flew over Wiltshire. Soon, the carriage landed in front of a manor nearly as impressive as Malfoy's. As Draco led her toward the entrance, Ginny's thoughts ran wild.

What if they recognize me? No, surely they couldn't. It's not as though anyone ever paid attention to me back at Hogwarts… Besides, they think me dead. Yes, that's bound to convince anyone. I can't be the Weasel girl.

As they stepped unto the porch, the high wooden doors opened, and a woman with dark hair and a prominent jaw literally threw herself at Draco.

“Draco, what a pleasure to see you,” she said as Draco kissed her hand. “Theo will be happy to know you have arrived.”

Romilda? Here? Merlin's beard, she'll recognize me in a heartbeat!

“Romilda, this is Ginevra, a friend of mine. Ginevra, Romilda Nott, mistress of the house,” Draco said.

“Delighted to meet you,” Ginny said, forcing her Slavic accent.

“Likewise,” Romilda said, barely taking her eyes off Draco. “Ginevra's a lovely name. There was a girl in my school named like that, she dated Potter for a while, you know, Harry Potter,“ she went on as she dragged her guests into the house. “So where are you from?”

“Durmstrang,” Ginny enunciated.

“Durmstrang?!? Oh, that's horrible! I mean, not really, but I would have hated going there. Besides, I wouldn't have met Theo if I hadn't—There he is! Theodore, come here, the Malfoys have arrived.”

A lank young man arrived, smiling pleasantly at Draco and Ginny.

“Ah, Draco, I'm glad you could come. We were just having a discussion with my father and Mr. Parkinson. I'm sure your expertise will be appreciated.” Turning to Ginny, he added, “I'm sorry, Miss, I'm going to have to steal Draco for a few seconds.”

They left off, Draco mildly concerned about Ginny's welfare, but soon wrapped up in the conversation with Parkinson and the Notts. Ginny had expected this, and set about exploring the house as dignifiedly as possible. She found it as richly decorated as Malfoy Manor, albeit in a more standoffish, in your face kind of way. Velvet, marble, and gilt fought alongside tapestries, paintings and sculptures of dubious taste. Groups of people she thought she remembered from Hogwarts walked past her without a second glance, though she distinctly heard someone sniggering, “Yes, she's Malfoy's new conquest; wonder how long she will last.” She turned to see Pansy Parkinson giving her a mocking glare. Parkinsons' features had rounded slightly, giving more kindness to a face that greatly needed it. Her nose, however, remained as it had been at Hogwarts, and her expressions possibly more so; she was the very picture of pedantry made woman.

“I know you don't need me to tell you this, but you shouldn't pay attention to Pansy's words whenever she refers to Draco.”

Ginny wheeled around and found herself face to face with Zabini's dark beauty. His slanted eyes were strangely obscure and burned like charcoal between his long eyelashes. Ginny felt like laughing in his face. Her last encounter with him had resulted in his being attacked by Arnold the Pigmy Puff and running away, screaming.

“Unfulfilled promises?” she asked smoothly.

“Broken vows,” he said in a deep, rich voice. He had this air of self-confidence and cool sarcasm that reminded Ginny of Draco. She was surprised to find his company not disagreeable.

“They weren't Slytherin for no reason,” she said casually.

“Nor was I. You must have been a Ravenclaw; I would have noticed you had you been in Slytherin.”

“Oh no, I attended Durmstrang.”

“Really? Fresh blood,” Blaise said, taking the excuse to look her up and down, “now that's rare—not to mention, appreciable.”

He raised his champagne glass to Ginny. She was about to tap her own glass against his when an arm slid around her waist, resting protectively there.

“Malfoy! It's been a while!”

“Indeed,” Draco said, smiling pleasantly, his voice frigid. “I see you've met Ginevra, Zabini. Would you excuse us for a moment?”

Blaise nodded obligingly. Ginny saw him wink at her before she was dragged away by her date. Though he did not appear to have anything to tell her, from that moment on, he kept his arm firmly around her. She endured the discussions without showing any sign of boredom, absorbed as she was in observing the people around her and feeling Draco's muscular arm against her back; he, perceiving the subtle movement of her face as she watched, held her to his side. She was so frail and animated in his grip that he felt intoxicated by her proximity.

At dinner, they were separated, as is the use when inviting couples. Draco was seated between Romilda Nott and a woman who looked like she could be Pansy's mother, and Ginny found herself between two rather old men she did not know, but facing Zabini. Draco shot Ginevra a discrete glance, admiring how straight she sat and how graceful each of her movement was, from the way she cut her chicken to the way she sometimes rubbed her nose with the back of her hand. As time rolled by, Draco was increasingly incensed to see Zabini and Ginevra deep in conversation, though he easily hid it. When they were allowed to leave the table, Draco was by Ginny's side in the blink of an eye.

“As my date,” he growled in her ear, “I would rather you refrained from conversing with only one, moreover single, male during the evening. It should be clear that you are here with me, not about to leave with Zabini.”

“But there was no one el—I'm sorry,” Ginny quickly amended as his eyes turned dark with anger.

Instantly, his face was once again peaceful and he nodded, and then started towing her from one group of people to the other. More than once, Ginny's gaze crossed Pansy Parkinson's loathsome glare and Blaise's amused eyes, but she reacted to neither and dutifully performed her task as Draco Malfoy's escort. They left early, it appeared to her, when a swingy music drifted from the ballroom and people started making their way toward it. They bid farewell to the Notts, Ginny thanking them profusely for a dinner she had not enjoyed, and were once again in the flying carriage.

“You don't like to dance, do you?” Ginny said out of the blue.

“Depends who I'm with,” he answered distantly.

Ouch, she thought. He realized how she must have interpreted his words when an uncomfortable silence came about. She had closed her eyes, leaning against the windowsill and looked like she could be asleep. Draco detailed the lines of her face, liking the way the prune shadows rested below her cheeks and around her eyes. It suddenly gave her a gaunt, too-quickly-grown look that he knew he had seen somewhere. The trip back did not bring back his memory, though, and when she woke and was once again full of roundness and life, he still could not tell why he thought he knew her.

This time, he accompanied Ginny to her room. Ceding to an impulse that had nagged him all day long, he leaned forward to kiss her, but an unexpected sensation made him kiss her cheeks rather than her mouth. She saw the hesitation and, for a second, was expectant, almost hungry for him, but he turned around and vanished at the end of the corridor. She entered her room, her body still tingling from the urge she had had to be passionately kissed by Draco.

***

The following morning, Grainne brought in a letter along with the breakfast tray.

Mrs. Vassil,

I am holding a tea party this afternoon and would be delighted if you could join us. It will be from 3 PM on, at the Parkinson Manor.

Best regards,

Pansy Elizabeth Parkinson.

Ginny groaned. She had expected an invitation, indeed, but certainly not from “Pug Pansy”. This could mean nothing good, but refusing the invitation would be a strategic error.

“Grainne, what time is the dinner at the Galileo?”

“Six, miss.”

“And how are we getting there?”

“I believe you will be Apparating there, as it is quite far.”

So if I'm back by five, that leaves me a little less than an hour to prepare… Two hours at the Parkinson Manor can't be that bad, can they?

“Where can I get some parchment?” Ginny asked as she got out of bed.

• “If I may, mademoiselle… If you wish to write to Miss Parkinson, there are ready made answers that I can send her. They are customized automatically,” she added, seeing a look of protest on Ginny's face.

“That's very well thought of,” Ginny said. “Yes, please do that.”

Ginny spent the early part of the day in Narcissa's garden, accompanied by three colorful birds that hovered and sang about her. Hermione having taught her that spell, she felt like she carried a bit of the Muggle-born witch with her. Her loneliness diminished somewhat at that thought. Ginny let her hands drift in the thick foliage, cupping around fruits and tickling flowers, marveling at how Narcissa could not have wished to grow this personally, leaving the task to the elves. She plucked a few Puffapods, determined to make them bloom in her unwelcoming antechamber.

Eventually she set off to the Parkinson Manor, having beforehand inquired about the distance. Unsurprisingly, Pansy's residence was close to Malfoy's. In barely five minutes, Ginny found herself in front of a castle suspended above the sea, its walls and towers of such a dark rock that they seemed carved out of the cliff. She was escorted past a number of rooms and galleries, just like the ones she had grown to expect in the manors of the people she was now dealing with. The doors of a boudoir opened before her when the butler stopped. She was introduced in a small room, decked in soft lavender and gold, with rivers of lilac streaming from a ceiling that showed a setting sun.

“Ah, Miss Vassil, at last. You don't mind if I call you Ginevra, do you?” Pansy purred as she greeted her.

“Not at all,” Ginny answered unctuously.

“Then please, call me Pansy. Ginevra, this is Millicent Goyle, Romilda Nott, with whom we dined last night, Cecilia Lestrange, Vivian Silverspring, and Georgiana Diggory. Ladies, Ginevra Vassil, Malfoy's friend.”

Pansy's voice had become acid, but Ginny was all eyes for the woman she believed to be Diggory's sister. Like him, she had wide, gray eyes and a rather square frame, though discreet freckles and her wavy ash-blonde hair added a subtle melancholy to her features. Ginny could not understand how a woman whose brother had been killed under the eyes of her friends' fathers and husbands could sit here, tranquilly sipping tea. Then she remembered that she herself was eating cookies under Parkinson's roof and lodged in Malfoy Manor, so she pressed the matter no further.

“So, Ginevra,” Pansy addressed her as the conversations continued, “how did you meet Draco?”

“I attended Durmstrang, and his father, in the hopes that Draco might one day go there as well, encouraged correspondence between the two of us. It was established thanks to the good will of our Headmaster at the time, Igor Karkaroff.”

“It is surprising that having exchanged letters with such a charming young woman as yourself, Draco did not immediately transfer,” Pansy observed, her voice thick with venom.

“Well, he never saw me until about a year ago,” Ginny said as self-consciously as possible, “though he did ask his parents to transfer during his fifth year. Narcissa would hear nothing about it.”

“Yes, that is very typical of Mrs. Malfoy. And so you saw Draco for the first time in person—?”

“A year ago, when I was invited to their country house in the South of France,” Ginny said innocently, knowing very well, from Zabini's confidences the previous evening, that Pansy had never been there and found the fact infuriating. Pansy's lips did indeed twitch somewhat maniacally at that moment.

“How delightful,” she gritted out. “Love at first sight, I suppose?”

Ginny let a silvery laugh stream from her lips, filling it with as much contempt as she could manage.

“Love, with Draco? Of course not. Let's just say that we found we had matching interests,” she smiled explicitly, “and that we got along better than one could expect.”

Ginny marveled at Pansy's self control. It was clear that the other woman wished only to strangle her and thought herself much more apt than Ginny to get along with Draco.

“Ah yes, because getting along with Draco Malfoy is quite a feat,” Romilda Nott dropped in at that moment.

I think in your case, getting along with anyone is quite a feat, Ginny thought viciously. She had not particularly appreciated the way Mrs. Nott hung about Mr. Malfoy, much like she had been thoroughly annoyed by Romilda's pathetic attempts at steering Harry away from her back at Hogwarts.

Harry… She thought fondly of him. He had made her promise not to regret him should anything happen, and she fought valiantly to think of him without a trace of sadness. Ever since Hermione had told her, after the raid at the Burrow, of the prophecy, she had understood that Harry would perish in his attempt to destroy Voldemort. His sudden disappearance, his loss of contact with anyone except, she guessed, Remus Lupin, had shortly been followed by his final disappearance at the hands of the Dark Lord.

But it worked. He rid us of Tom Riddle and the monster he had become, and for what? For the pure-bloods, under Lucius Malfoy's lead, to take over and shape the British Wizarding world as they found fit.

“I dated him for a while,” Romilda continued, ignoring the glare Pansy threw at her. “He was thoughtful, I guess. I mean, I had whatever I wanted, dresses, jewelry, trips to the end of the world. That was fun. But he was never really there…”

“Draco only enjoys the company of educated and sophisticated women,” Viviane said unexpectedly. “He is difficult to please, just as he should be.”

“Well yes, I know, but apparently even I wasn't enough for him. I hope it works out well for you,” Romilda told Ginny in a spirit that differed entirely from Pansy's.

“Thank you. I'm sure it will,” Ginny said.

Murder was etched plainly in Pansy's face.

***

“I am so glad to be out of there,” Ginny told herself as she ran up the stairs to her room.

“Out of where?” Draco's voice echoed.

“Errrr…”

“Parkinson invited you to tea, did she?” Draco said, emerging from one corridor's shadows.

“Well yes, but—“

“And she gave you the usual, `Draco needs a refined and witty woman', `He's very hard to please', accompanied by death glares?”

“Actually, Viviane Silverspring took care of the `refined and witty' part. But yes, that was pretty much it.”

“Typical… All of my—“ his voice trailed, “—girlfriends have been given the talk by my ex-soon-to-be-wife. I'm afraid my father had been too clear in his desire to unite the Malfoy and Parkinson families.” Draco was suddenly lost in thought, but he resurfaced promptly. “We're having dinner at the Galileo tonight with—“

“Business partners. Grainne told me. I'll be ready by quarter to six, if that's early enough?”

He nodded and let her pass. He breathed in sharply when she brushed past him.

I need a woman… soon.

***

“We're going to have to close the Cleansweep factory in Manchester, it's just not competitive enough anymore,” Draco explained calmly.

“What if we modernized it? That would only cost—“

“Even if we did modernize it, the Cleansweep is quickly becoming out of fashion. I think we should invest elsewhere, maybe in the Nimbus, or concentrate on the Cleansweep factories near Birmingham and advertise to a specific type of client.”

Draco's rather heavy partner with the obnoxious purple robes appeared reassured by the latter option and nodded frantically. His wife, who was probably in her forties, smiled absently. Ginny had immediately liked her quiet elegance, so unlike that of the two other women at the table. One of them was at least twenty years younger than her husband (she assumed they were married), a sultry brunette who threw languid glances at Draco and conniving smiles at Ginny. The other was Draco's business partner and was so in-your-face and aggressive that she distinctly reminded Ginny of Rita Skeeter. Her husband, an effaced little man, was busy finishing the wine bottle with the sex-bomb.

Ginny, though mildly bored, made an effort to understand what was going on. She would report to Hermione later. At some point in the dinner, she put her hand on Draco's lap and let it rest there. He threw her a sharp glance, shortly followed by a minuscule smile, and continued arguing coolly. Eventually, Ginny managed to begin chatting with the timid woman, who turned out to be Romanian and have attended Durmstrang. Their conversation lasted until the end of dinner, when Draco took the check and Apparated with Ginny back to the Manor.

“She's really an adorable woman,” Ginny was telling Draco as he escorted her back to her room. “Oh, and thank you for the dinner, it was delicious. She said she would have returned to teach at Durmstrang if she hadn't married Mr.—“

“Sevskin,” Draco completed.

“Yes, Mr. Sevskin. It would have been interesting to have her as a teacher, I think.”

“Having interesting teachers makes them all the harder to lose,” Draco said somberly.

She knew he was referring to Snape, whom Harry and Remus had managed to kill. For the first time, she measured the gap the war had made between two Hogwarts students like Draco and herself: whereas he mourned the teacher who had helped and even protected him, she had been satisfied upon learning the well-deserved death of the murderer. They reached her room.

“Goodnight,” she said.

“Goodnight,” he said, and he kissed her once, softly, but for a few seconds, at the corner of her lips.

Aaaaaaargh! screamed her mind, much like, at the other end of the hall, screamed Draco's body.

A/N: Aquilo is the Roman name for the Greek god Boreas, who, as the North Wind, commanded storms and violently cold winds.

-->

• Hesperides' Apple

• Chapter 4

Ginny stared dejectedly at the pile of clothing in her closet room.

“How am I supposed to know what to take when I've never been to stupid Italy and have clothes enough to dress an entire finishing school?” she snapped, annoyed.

Grainne materialized at her side.

“If you wish, mademoiselle, I could take care of this for you,” she offered.

Ginny looked like Christmas had come early.

“You would? Thank you so much!” she exclaimed.

Grainne stared at her feet, looking vaguely uncomfortable. Ginny wished the ghost servant would understand that she, unlike the Malfoys, knew that the words “Please” and “Thank you” existed. As she had other matters to take care of, however, she left it at that and went to the main library. She was surprised to find Draco lounging on a divan, so absorbed in his book he didn't hear her coming in. Lost in the alternate universe of his lecture, his face was free of the lines and harshness his role in society had inculcated him since his earliest age. Ginny actually saw what he must have looked like as a little boy, with hollow cheeks and an aristocratic nose, but also with a softness that had disappeared as he became a young man.

“Hello,” she said.

He turned his head slowly toward her.

“Hello,” he said. “Grainne told me you were packing.”

“Well, I was, until I realized I had no idea what to bring, and she generously offered to take care of it for me.”

He smirked.

“At least I know how to choose books on my own,” she added simply, and buried herself in the Blue Area, hunting for the perfect stack of novels to bring along with her.

Draco turned back to his book, marveling at the library's light that gave her blonde hair a delicate orange tint.

***

Draco's business partner, an American wizard by the name of Ted Sommers, had a beautiful house in Sicily, a gorgeous wife in her mid-thirties, and three children. Mrs. Sommers was delighted to see that Draco's “fiancée” got along very well with her children and, rather than attempting to carry out lengthy conversations on dull topics, she retreated to the shade below her parasol; she spent most of her days sleeping by the pool. Ginny, as happy with the turn of events as Mrs. Sommers, was followed everywhere she went by five-year old Paul and the three-year old twins, Sara and Mathilde. Draco and Ted were inseparable, buried neck-deep in discussions about stock exchanges, though they emerged for meals and an hour of Wizarding Tennis per day. Ginny would bring the kids close to the tennis court so that they could see their dad play, also enabling her to admire Draco's powerful and precise swings. Each time Draco shot a look at the little group, however, Ginny was busy conjuring birds for the girls or making Paul float.

They were, of course, given a room with one bed. The first night, both of them avoided the issue until they could no longer delay it. Ginny saw that Malfoy deemed it below him to enquire about their bedding arrangement, so she began.

“What do you want to do about the bed?” she asked.

`It's up to you, really,” he said politely. “Though I certainly wouldn't mind sharing,” he added with a suggestive grin.

She flashed him a charming smile.

“No problem. I used to share my bed with my best friend when we had visitors at the Bu—at home,” she said.

Ginny calmly slid between the sheets, murmured, “Good night,” and started sleeping. Comfortably installed in an armchair, Draco read for a while, and then looked at her sleeping form. Her hair, still damp from the shower she had taken, smelled faintly of fruit and curled naturally. He took his shirt off and lay down next to her. He yearned to wrap himself around her, to have her body fitting into his. It took him a while to fall asleep.

Ginny awoke to the sun's burning prints on her face. She opened her eyes and found herself face to face with Draco, still asleep, breathing slowly. Part of her urged her to place a kiss on his cheekbone, then one on his jaw, followed by one in his neck, and keep trailing down until he awoke. But before it got worse, she hurried out of bed.

When Draco woke up, it was to find himself alone in the bed. He groggily made his way to the shower, emerging ten minutes later with a towel around his waist and much clearer thoughts. The windows of their room were open. Draco walked to the balcony only to find Ginny reading, facing the Sommers' garden. She wore the Nelsha in a strapless tube dress that would have flared at the knees had she not bunched it up. A feral smile crossed Draco's face as he took in the creamy expanse of her skin. He kissed her on the shoulder and said, “Good morning.”

She winced and said, “Hello,” as a blush crept on her cheeks.

Satisfied, he asked, “Shall we go get breakfast?”

Ginny nodded and got up, the bottom of her dress flowing graciously around her ankles.

“The cut of your dress suits you,” Draco said as they descended the stairs.

“Really?” She turned her happy face to him. “I thought the kids would like it. I mean, I loved my mother's loose dresses, and this one's light enough that I can play with them even around noon.”

They had breakfast with Ted as his wife was still in bed, then the men hurried away to talk about business. Ginny read until the kids were up and about, then spent the morning helping them build a sand castle. At lunch time, hearing no word from either Draco or the Notts, she visited the kitchens and asked the elves for picnic material. She and the kids found a cozy place on the grass under a cherry tree. A colorful tablecloth was soon spread and covered with sandwiches, salads, juices, and fruits. Ginny was telling a story when Ted and Draco found them and decided to join in. Draco watched, amused as Ginny played mother to the children.

“She'll make a good wife,” Ted whispered into his ear.

“Yes, I think she will,” Draco answered.

That night, when Ginny was asleep, Draco wrapped his arms around her. She turned slightly toward him and he saw a blissful smile bloom on her lips.

***

“Shoot, shoot, shoot,” Ginny said as she dug through her closet. “Ah!” she exclaimed, relieved, upon finding the pair of stilettos she was looking for.

Barefooted, she then hurried down the stairs, beginning to say, “Sorry I'm lat—“ when she missed a step and fell. Draco, who had been waiting for her impatiently, leapt and caught her in mid-air.

“Thank you,” she whispered, shuddering.

“Let's go,” he said without sparing her a second glance once she was steady on her feet.

She ran after him, and they got in the carriage. She bent over to tie her shoes, but her hat fell in the process. Annoyed, she placed it next to her and was about to make a second attempt when Draco said, “Let me.” She looked at him, startled, but his face was placid, as if he had just suggested a highly logical and practical thing. Which, she had to admit, was somewhat true, so she handed him her shoes and placed a foot on his knee.

“MCCD is the abbreviation for—” Draco began as he slipped her foot in the sandal.

“Malfoy Center for Children with Disabilities,” Ginny said, her senses alert, feeling his fingers brush her ankle.

“It was my father's idea,” he continued, tying a knot around her ankle. I bet, she thought. “It's a revolutionary idea, trying to cure Squibs.” He motioned for her to give him her other foot. “The Medi-wizards at the Center will dispose of many funds, both for treatment and research.” He slipped her shoe on. “So the program should have excellent results.”

Draco appeared extremely proud, and it touched her to see him taking something at heart that way. She knew he felt he was doing the right thing, though she could not help but dislike the way he treated lack of magic as an illness.

“Your mother did not want to come?” she asked as he put her foot down.

“No. She conceived this project with my father, and was as involved in it as he was. Coming to the inauguration would only remind her that he is no longer here to see his project finished.”

Ginny said nothing. She had loathed Lucius Malfoy so fiercely that she could not trust herself to say another word without having her hatred seep out. They arrived in front of a rather wide, white building, topped with a dome. Around it sprawled a very green park, with high trees and ponds. Ginny found the place beautiful, albeit a little lifeless. There was already quite a crowd gathered near the entrance at the foot of a marble monument. It represented Lucius standing straight and proud, an arm around Narcissa, who extended her hand in a welcoming gesture. Frozen in the stone, they could not have looked more like their actual selves.

Upon seeing their carriage, a tall woman in white robes headed for them. Their carriage door opened, and as soon as Draco had helped her out, the woman accosted him.

“Mister Malfoy, thank you so much for coming.”

“It was the least I could do for my father, Angela. He would have been very happy to be here today. You did a fantastic job.”

Angela Bjork was a woman in her mid-fifties, though beauty was still etched plainly in every feature. She looked at Draco fondly, but the mention of Lucius sufficed to fill her gaze with mixed adoration and sorrow.

“Thank you. I—I wish he could be here. How is your mother faring?” she enquired politely, for it was clear that she liked Narcissa about as much as Snape had liked Harry.

“The loss is very painful, but she is stoic. She will not be coming.”

Mrs. Bjork appeared satisfied with that piece of information.

“The ceremony begins at ten,” Mrs. Bjork explained. “I will introduce you, then you will have a few minutes to present the project. You will then cut the ribbon. The staff will welcome the first Squibs...” She pronounced the word as if fearing it would stain her lips. “…and you will be free to resume you regular activities which, I am sure, are very many and of greater importance than this.”

“Of course not,” Draco said unconvincingly.

With his arm around Ginny's waist, he set about to meet the other members of the staff and greet Board members. The crowd grew bigger as hordes of reporters flocked to the Center. Draco and Ginny were glad when Mrs. Bjork told Draco to get ready. She walked to the top of the stairs and, after a look Ginny couldn't understand at Lucius' statue, she magnified her voice.

“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the Malfoy Center for Children with Disabilities. This establishment has been—“

Ginny watched dispassionately as the flashes of the photographers crackled. When it was Draco's turn to speak, he pushed her gently forward and kept her in his arms while giving the speech. She resisted her urge to groan, as she was certain that this would make it to the trashy newspapers the next day. Mrs. Bjork handed Draco an enormous pair of scissors.

“I declare the Malfoy Center for Children with Disabilities open,” he announced as the cut ribbon spiraled to the ground.

Cheers and applause erupted. Draco, coolly exalted, pressed a firm kiss on Ginny's head. Staff members stepped forward and started speaking with Wizards accompanied by younger children. Ginny saw the incertitude in their eyes, the secret fear of being different, the knowledge that they were an insult to their family's honor. No one paid attention to them, much less talked to them. This day was about them, and the people around them couldn't have cared less. Ginny walked to a little boy who stood staring at his feet.

“Hello,” she said.

He looked up, surprised.

“What's your name?” she asked him.

“Leo Lestrange,” he said.

Argh. A Death Eater's son. Poor kid, he must have it tough, with the family he has…

“I'm Ginny. So, tell me, you haven't discovered your magical talents yet?”

Again he looked down and shook his head.

“And how old are you?”

“Twelve.”

“You know, I had a friend in school who wasn't very good with magic. He used to mess up his spells, when he managed to cast a spell at all. But in his fifth year, he realized that he was extremely gifted in Herbology. His friends excelled in Charms, Quidditch, Transfiguration, everything that is an obvious display of magic, but he found his way caring for plants. And though his grandmother kept saying he was a Squib, by then he had realized that his magic was just different, more specified, and as valuable as any other wizard's.”

Leo looked at her uncertainly, eager to believe her but unable to.

“He's the one who bred the Luna Nevilum that saved many wizards from the Harpy Pox,” she added. “I don't think people understand how hard it must have been to breed a Mandrake with Devil's Snares, but he did it. I'm sure you'll find something that will awaken the wizard in you.”

“And if nothing does?” he mumbled.

“Something will, I promise. Will you keep me posted?”

He was still so abashed that the woman who a few minutes ago had stood by Draco Malfoy would talk to him that he nodded.

“Just send an owl to Ginny Weas—to Ginny, at the Malfoy Manor. I'll come visit you, if you'd like.”

Leo nodded and smiled this time. She stooped, hugged him, and searched for another disconsolate child. Draco, deep in discussion with one of the Board members, watched her going from Squib to Squib, uttering what he knew to be reassuring and encouraging words.

Eastern European wizards really do not have the same blood standards as the British ones, he thought. Somehow the knowledge did not make him very proud.

***

“They were bound to find out eventually,” Narcissa shrugged as Draco threw a venomous look at the newspaper on his desk. “You are the most eligible bachelor of Great Britain, after all.”

On the cover, a black-and-white Draco was giving yet another inauguration speech, holding Ginny in his arms. Above it, “Draco Malfoy's umpteenth fiancée: here to stay?” announced the color of the article.

“Besides, it's not the first time this has happened to you, in the newspaper or with a woman. The question remains, however, is she here to stay?”

“For now, yes,” Draco said. “The press appreciated her contact with the Squib children, the fact that's she's been answering their letters, and that she volunteers at St. Mungo's. Frankly, I don't see how she finds the time, but—“

“Don't be blind, Draco,” his mother snapped at him. “Just because you're too busy to spend time with her doesn't mean her days are filled with exciting events. At least in that regard, try not to learn from your father; it's a lonely life, being the wife of a Malfoy.”

He pondered her statement.

“Do you think she's happy?” he asked.

“I think she's troubled. She's very mature for her age and all too aware of her own innocence. She tries to hide it. She guards herself, and that pushes her toward others. But when she is alone, it seems to me like she's torn between living happily and withering away.”

Draco was silent.

“Does she like your friends?”

“Not really. She appears to get along with Blaise well enough—“

“Though encouraging their friendship would not be wise.”

“Of course not; I know that, Mother. No, it's almost like she's two different persons when we are together and with other people.”

“Then maybe you should think out of your bubble for a bit, rather than trying to fit her in it.”

Draco saw the sadness Narcissa had been harboring ever since she had married his father; he saw how it could easily become Ginny's and decided he would try to prevent that. Narcissa exited her son's office in silence, leaving him to think. It didn't take him long.

“James,” he called.

The ghost butler was there in an instant.

“I want you to get a table for two at the Rimbaud.”

“Certainly, Master Malfoy.”

Draco then went in search of Ginny. He looked for her in her apartments, in the Library, and in the painting room in which she had begun to spend time. She was nowhere to be found. Upset, he barked, “Grainne!”

“Yes, Lord Malfoy?”

“Where is Ginevra?”

“In—in—in the kitchen, Master.”

“And what is she doing there?”

“Cooking, Master,” Grainne whispered, so transparent from fear that she was barely visible.

Luckily, Draco was so surprised that he didn't even think of punishing her. The mere thought of a witch cooking when she has house-elves at her beck and call left him without voice. In his life, Draco Malfoy had probably never spoken more than five minutes with a witch who knew how to make so much as pasta. And so, for the first time in his many years at the Manor, Draco headed for the kitchen.

He found it to be a surprisingly neat and bright place, utterly devoid of the filth and putrid smells he associated with it. The orange light sprung from the gigantic furnaces glided on the wooden beams and bricks, coiling in the copper casseroles hung to the walls. Ginny, her hair tied in a messy bun and with flour on her nose, was mixing a paste in a bowl stuck between her arm and hip. Draco could see a gathering of house-elves looking fearfully at Ginny as a knocking sound repeated itself.

“Will you stop hitting yourself with the pan?” she was screaming at the house-elf chef. “I said stop it, right now! Stop hurting yourself!”

Draco saw the exasperation and tiredness in her voice. He guessed the chef had been at this for a while, probably ever since she had refused his services. He could have intervened, but preferred to observe the creases that had formed in her face and the fire in her angry voice.

What does she care about a house-elf hitting himself? If he couldn't get her to rest instead of cooking, that's really all he deserves…

“Mistress must not cook, mistress must not cook,” the chef squealed between cries of pain.

Realizing that, although she screamed at him, the Mistress had no intention of stopping, he ran toward the oven. From the mass of house-elves rose a horrified sigh. Ginny immediately dropped the bowl, grabbed her wand and snapped, “Wingardium Leviosa”. The house-elf, immobilized and floating above ground, began punching himself.

“That's quite enough,” Draco's voice cut like a knife through the elf's yelps and the others' murmur.

The chef immediately stopped. All the house elves bowed very low. Ginny was looking at Draco, hesitating between gratefulness and annoyance.

“Why didn't he stop when I told him to?” she asked, wiping her forehead and smudging a streak of flour there.

“Because you're not Master Malfoy,” he drawled.

He walked up to her, looked at her face made coppery by the furnaces' glow and smiled. With a smooth gesture, he erased the flour dash on her forehead. Ginny blushed.

“And why were you cooking?”

“For the children at the MCCD. I don't think the food they're being given is very good, and all children like cookies, so—“

“Did it occur to you that maybe disgusting food is supposed to make them angry, and that when people are angry they do things they're not usually capable of doing? Like, say, magic?”

She looked shocked.

“You willingly make their lives miserable??? Don't you think that tenderness and encouragement would have a better chance of working? Because I can tell you that their parents certainly haven't tried that.”

“It's an interesting suggestion, I will tell Angela about it.” Ginny snorted. “But why cook it yourself? The house-elves would be more than happy to do it for you, as you can see.”

“Because I like to cook. It takes my mind off things and—” She hesitated “—and I was bored. I had nothing else to do—at least nothing that was useful—so I figured I'd do like my mom used to and bake something for the kids. There really was no reason for your elf here…” She glared at the chef. “…to give way to his suicidal tendencies.”

“He angered you. André—“ Draco began. The chef grabbed a knife and nodded tearfully.

“No!” Ginny shrieked. “That's precisely what I didn't want him to do! Put the knife down! Put—it—down!”

Draco enjoyed seeing her so distraught. It was amusing how much she valued the poor buggers' health. He dismissed the house-elves with a gesture, giving André a look that promised him he would get back to him, but later. Ginny missed the look and relaxed noticeably.

“Thank you,” she said. “Want some cookie dough?”

He peered down at the brownish mixture lurking at the bottom of the bowl, freckled with what could have been chocolate.

“No thanks,” he said. She smiled at his expression of disgust. “I was actually here to ask you whether dinner at the Rimbaud would please you tonight.”

“The Rimbaud?” Ginny asked, puzzled.

“They have excellent food there, and dancing.”

A childish grin lit her face.

“That sounds great,” she said, the thrill in her voice apparent.

“We'll leave at eight, then.”

Without another word, he walked out of the kitchen.

Yes, Master Malfoy, Ginny curtsied irreverently.

***

“…and Leo Lestrange, he really is adorable,” Ginny rambled, “unlike his parents.”

“You know the Lestranges?” Draco asked, surprised.

Despite her increasing tipsiness, Ginny realized she had just made a blunder.

“No, but I heard about them. Oh, and something I was wondering about… What's up with the Bjork woman? Why does she hate your mother so much?”

Draco looked at the woman in front of him, highly amused. No one in their right mind would ask such a personal question, Ginevra least of all—had she been sober. He blessed the intuition (or habit) that had pushed him to offer her cocktail after cocktail of what tasted like little more than fruit juice but contained more than enough alcohol.

“Angela was my father's mistress for a little while,” Draco explained.

“That's preposterous,” Ginny said, unknowingly imitating Draco's clipped tone. “Why would he—heyyyy, speaking of mistress,” she muttered to herself, looking slightly disgruntled when a woman placed her hand on Draco's shoulder.

“Draco, how are you?” the woman said.

“I'm well, and yourself?” Draco said, kissing her hand without getting up.

How rude, a little voice sang in Ginny's head. The little voice was also singing a ballad that Fred and George had taught their little sister, so naughty it would have made any lady blush; so Ginny blushed for good measure and glared at Draco for being so rude. All in all, it made her look strangely congested.

“Wouh, I must have drunk a leeetle bit too much,” she mumbled.

Draco was trying to get rid of Dana—or was it Danaé?—to keep talking with Ginny, or, at the very least, to keep her talking. She was delightful when tipsy, bubbly and spirited, unrestrained like he had never seen her. Before he had a chance to dispatch his ex, however, Ginny had subtly pulled out her wand and whispered, “Sobrietus”. Instantaneously, the little voices in her head were quiet, giving way to Ginny's berating of herself for letting her guard down. When Draco finally turned back to her, he knew. The straight posture and the distinguished smile were back; he had missed his chance.

The evening flew by, bringing its load of delicates dishes and female acquaintances, which Ginny greeted with minimal courtesy. As the music grew louder and more enticing, Draco noticed Ginny's foot marking the beat. A few couples and groups of women had begun colonizing the dance floor.

“Care for a dance?” Draco asked Ginny.

“Only if you ask me on your knees,” she joked, taking his hand and following him on the dance floor.

Only then was Ginny tremendously grateful for her dance lessons at Hesperides' Apples. Draco, she supposed, had learn to dance along with walking and riding a broom, and effortlessly swung her back and forth, making her pirouette, twirl, and glide like a jumping jack. The firmness of his guidance was comforting, so that she let exaltation and Draco take over very quickly.

“You're a good dancer,” he whispered in her ear as he tipped her casually.

“You're not so bad yourself,” she retorted when, a few seconds later, he had her trapped in his arms.

“So they say,” he smirked, spinning her away from him.

“I bet,” she sighed, her eyebrows raised to indicate he was beyond salvation.

Each dance brought them closer, until salsa came around with its catchy rhythms and sensual moves. Hungry for contact, Draco pressed her against him, while she, as desperate for his touch as he was for hers, flashed him tempting smiles. Her hand, brushed knowingly against his cheek or clasped to his shoulder, her fascinating hips cradled in his or swaying far from him, sent tremors through his body. Ginny sensed his attraction and felt it swelling within her as well. Danaé eyed them furiously.

“They should get a room,” she groaned to her partner, who was too mesmerized by her cleavage to pay her words any attention.

And get a room they did. Draco and Ginny Apparated back to the Manor. As soon as they were on his home turf, he slammed her against the first door he found. Both were breathing heavily. He held her pinned against the door and, pulling her hair from her face with one hand, he kissed her in the neck. She breathed in sharply, growing tenser as his kisses landed near her ear, down her jaw, at the corner of her lips. He hesitated then. She looked at him in the eye, as if daring him to continue, as if urging him to continue, and when she didn't move, he kissed her mouth. He bit her lips, swollen and round like raspberries, then slipped his tongue between her teeth gently, curiously.

The man must always make the first move, Molly Weasley had once told her. I think this qualifies at the first move, Ginny thought, so she gripped his neck with one hand, let the other tread through his hair, and returned his kiss feverishly. To hell with decency!

She clung to Draco so ardently that he, unable to keep his cool, scooped her up and opened the door with a kick. In a few hurried steps they had reached the bed of a room Ginny did not know. He put her down at the foot of the bed and pealed the dress off her, his hands not leaving her bare skin in the process. He was surprised to see she wore no bra, but quickly recovered; he caressed one small breast softly, his fingers playing with her. She breathed in sharply, shivers of pleasure coursing through her body, merging at the core. She had been with men before, but their touch lacked this authoritarian, yet delicate accuracy, that turned her skin into a brazier. He, overwhelmed by the softness of her skin, wanted nothing more than to sink into her. He pushed her on the bed, holding her back with an arm, and then lowered himself to her.

-->

• Hesperides' Apple

• Chapter 5

Ginny awoke when the heat became unbearable. She was buried in Draco's bed, the golden sunlight around her slowly turning the room into a furnace. She pushed back the covers and ran to the window, opening it to let some air flow.

Having no neighbors has its advantages, she though, prancing about stark-naked. She discovered a yellow lily on the pillow next to hers and smiled. Whenever Draco could not stay in bed in the morning, which was more often than not, he had started leaving her flowers. The morning after a particularly dull and painful dinner at the Averys', she had found a string of pearls intertwined in the leaves of an iris. The following week, an amber bracelet had rewarded her patience with Pansy, after the former Slytherin had monopolized Draco during a dance at her manor. But when at one cocktail party Ginny had staved off boredom by chatting with the increasingly sympathetic Blaise Zabini, she had found neither Draco nor a flower in bed the subsequent morning. She had laughed a lot and made it up to Draco that same evening.

After the night spent in Draco's room, Ginny invariably returned to her own apartments. She managed to divide her time between St. Mungo's and MCCD's children, gardening under Narcissa's half-disgusted, half-intrigued gaze, painting, reading, and taking incredibly long baths. Her evenings were usually booked, whether to have dinner with Draco or to attend some reception here or there. And, of course, Pansy Parkinson invited her regularly to tea, and the hours spent at her house were the bane of Ginny's existence.

Ginny had seen the last week of the one-month trial begin without fear. She was pretty certain that Draco had no complaints regarding her conduct and abilities. What she could not deem, however, was whether he cared enough for her to marry her. In particular, his having restrained himself from sleeping with her was puzzling.

Her eyes are closed but syrupy giggles stream from her lips. He bites her ear, then her cheek, while his fingers dance inside her. Between two sighs of pleasure she lets her hand run on his lean shoulders and smooth torso, on his iliac spine and on the length of his erection. His breath hitches in his throat, his fingers grow restless as she caresses him. Her legs knotted around his back, she presses him feverishly against her.

For a second he lifts his hips from her, and despite the veil of desire obscuring her eyes, she sees what he's doing. Of course, she thinks, and subtly braces herself. But he perceives the faint hesitation, and though he doesn't understand it, since she clearly is no longer a virgin, he lowers himself and guides her hand to him again. Surprised, she gives him a searching look. His eyes are closed. She watches his pleasure mount as she fondles him, still unsure of his reason for sparing her a moment she dislikes, not knowing that he will continue to do so the subsequent nights.

Even more alarming than this lack of certainty were her own feelings. Ginny knew herself too well to think them harmless and without consequence, yet she resolutely smothered them. She could not, however, prevent a jolt of glee from rippling through her when she found a note on her bed head.

“Lunch at one. Southern terrace.”

Draco Malfoy, epitome of shortness, she thought mockingly. But they hadn't eaten together in little less than a week, and she grudgingly had to admit that she had missed their conversations. So Ginny disappeared in her closet, only to emerge half an hour later with satisfying clothes. Time in the bathroom took her nearly twice as long, but by the time one o'clock rolled by, she was ready, looking fresh and lively in a cerulean summer dress.

“Hello,” Ginny said, finding Draco already installed at the terrace table.

“Hello,” he said somewhat huskily.

He stood up and kissed her in what she could almost have described as “a tender way”. As usual, he pulled her chair back to help her sit, and then sat facing her.

“So, how have you been?” he asked.

“Lonely,” she replied, without a trace of feeling or resentment. He acknowledged the fact.

“Things have been particularly hectic lately, not that it is a rare occurrence. The Cleansweep factory workers in Manchester are annoyed by the measures we've taken.” Annoyed was an understatement for the riots that had erupted. “The media have published proof of corruption in various departments of the Ministry, and the vaccines of the Harpy Pox are apparently no longer effective against the mutating virus. Dealing with all of this at the same time is… impractical.”

Ginny leaned forward, clearly interested.

“The Luna Nevilum doesn't work anymore?”

“Not nearly as well as it used to. More and more wizards are becoming immune to the vaccine.”

“And you had invested in said vaccine?” she asked innocently.

“A lot, at least in the eyes of the common people. The Malfoy fortune could easily bear the loss, but it was quite a source of revenue. Not to mention of prestige. Saving the lives of children, preventing adults from developing alarming sequels… Oh yes, I did invest in it.”

“And the corruption scandal…?”

“Irvin Rosier, Geoffrey Gamp, and Jason Burke were appointed, thanks to my father's support, about a year ago. Rosier (from the Goblin Liaison Office) and Burke (he was part of the International Magic Trading Standards Body) have been fiddling with laws and blackmailing people, and earning quite an amount of Galleons in the process. Not only is this not good for the Ministry's image and finances, but it also reflects on the Malfoy name.”

“What about Gamp?”

“Pedophilia. Muggles. He'd Obliviate them after, but the shock and the spell left the kids broken, and Aurors managed to figure it out.”

Ginny's eyes went blank with anger and disgust.

“What is the punishment?”

“One year in Azkaban. Rosier and Burke, on the other hand, are facing somewhere between two to five years, plus fine—and believe me, it's going to be quite a fine.”

“One year? One?”

“Well, yes. For tampering with non-Magical elements. It's not that big a deal, just thoroughly disgusting.”

Draco saw mute fury in the way Ginevra's lips tightened and her hands suddenly contracted. He was chilled by how easily the hate that twisted her features then vanished. A sweet, albeit pensive, smile was again on her lips.

“Of course.”

“And how's gardening coming along?” Draco, surprised to find himself uncomfortable, changed the topic.

“Lovely, although Narcissa had to threaten the elves so that they wouldn't bury themselves alive, or throw themselves on their shovels… Even though I explained them I had charmed the shovels, that this wouldn't be tiring, that a simple Aguamenti would water everything, they would not let me do it!”

Draco smiled dismissively as James appeared and asked them what they would have for lunch. Ginny, apparently distracted, was caught off guard. Draco offered to order for her, and she agreed. A veil of unspoken words seemed to fall between them.

“I was planning on hosting a reception a week from now. Would that inconvenience you?” Draco asked.

“No, of course not.” Ginny immediately had that businesslike look about her that comforted Draco in his decision. “Which day?”

“Thursday evening.”

“Who should I send invitations to?”

“Don't worry about that, the servants will take care of it.”

“And in what honor?”

Draco smiled enigmatically. At that moment, a swan flew over the balcony and landed at Ginny's side. She was surprised not to have seen it earlier. It deposited the little box of ebony it carried in its beak on the table before Ginny. She gave Draco an inquisitive glance, but he was as impassible as ever. She flipped the box open.

It contained a white gold ring, simply nested in black velvet. Delicately carved tentacles ensnared a diamond flanked by two smaller ones. Ginny gaped, then looked at Draco, her eyebrows knitted in confusion

“Will you marry me?” he asked, as if enquiring about the weather.

“But you already—“

“Yes, technically, I already bought you,” he interrupted her, his voice carrying a cutting edge. She winced but knew that he was merely calling a spade a spade. “But I don't want a wife who may have realized she did not want to become Mrs. Malfoy, or who will never stop thinking of herself as a purchased good.”

He has principles? Ginny wondered, an unexpected warmth curling in her breast.

“So I give you the choice, and ask you again: will you marry me?”

An awkward emptiness was stuck in his throat.

“Yes,” she said. “Thank you,” she added.

“Not at all,” he said calmly. He was glad to see he could keep a professional cool despite the relief her answer occasioned. A serene happiness washed through him. “The reception will be, as you will have guessed, in honor of our wedding.”

“I'm not sure all your acquaintances will be very happy about this,” she laughed brightly.

“Well, maybe Pansy will finally agree to marry Flint,” Draco said, smiling.

He lifted his glass to her, and they toasted. Ginny, though unsettled by the methodical formality of his demand, relied on it to curb her bliss.

***

“Two weeks from now?” Ginny asked, aghast, the day of the reception. “But people will never be able to come over with such short notice!”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Narcissa smirked. “This is a Malfoy wedding; people will find the time to come, or make it. Besides,” she added, giving Ginny a meaningful glance, “I'm sure they saw it coming.”

“I doubt it,” Ginny retorted. Narcissa was stunned by the girl's impertinence. “Draco's had so many girlfriends before that they thought I was just another one.”

“Oh no. They may have thought so at first, but the publicity you've been receiving proves they know something greater is at hand. Besides, people saw you dancing at the Rimbaud, and I think you should know that Draco has never spent the entire evening dancing with the same woman, even when he was accompanied by Vivian Silverspring or Serafina Zabini.”

With that, Narcissa left Ginny to her preparations for the evening reception. The young woman cautiously dyed her hair before she took a bath, not wanting any particularly bitter witch to notice her faint, auburn roots. She had Grainne tie her hair in a complex chignon and, with one swish of her wand, adorned it with a black lily. She put on the gray silk dress, placed the Aquilo sapphires necklace around her neck, and sauntered to the mirror.

“You truly are dear Cissy's worthy successor,” the mirror mused.

“Cissy?”

“Narcissa, of course. You should have seen her when she arrived, the poor precious. Such a delicate and timid, young woman, though with steel-strong principles, I'll tell you that.”

“I'm sure,” Ginny murmured. “But thanks—if that was a compliment….”

“A compliment? Darling, you look good enough to eat.”

That's what he said, Ginny sniggered in silence. But somehow, she had to agree. The dress flattered her lanky silhouette, and its color highlighted the gold in her eyes and hair. She looked like the moment when the sun peaks through the clouds after a storm has unleashed its downpours. If only mum could see me now....

What Mrs. Weasley would think should she see her being in no way certain nor encouraging, Ginny didn't dwell further on the thought. She abandoned the thought and focused on the night ahead. Narcissa had helped her arrange the Manor for the event, though of course, the house elves had taken care of all the actual work. Ginny discovered that the first floor of the mansion could rearrange itself according to the type of celebration held. For the ball, the vestibule had elongated and grown stairs for the Malfoys to theatrically descend from; adjacent to the vestibule was the dining room, rendered huge and furnished with five tables of twenty place settings each; the dining room's doors then opened unto four ballrooms, three boudoirs, one smoking room, and one pool room. The aristocratically sober household had been embellished by numerous objects, mirrors, chandeliers, vases, and busts of impeccable taste.

Ginny was erring in the vestibule, awaiting their guests, when Grainne popped up against her.

“Does Miss need anything? Is Miss unsatisfied with the arrangement?”

“Errr—no, why?”

“Because Miss is here.”

“Ah, yes. I'm just waiting for the people to arrive. Greet them, take their capes, you know….”

Grainne's face contorted in unspeakable shock.

“Oh no, Miss. Mistress Malfoy will greet the guests, Godfried, Gilbert, Garfield, and I will relieve them of their capes. You must wait for Master Malfoy, then you will both descend the stairs together, and then the evening will begin.”

Ginny agreed, thinking how dreary it must be to be welcomed by ghosts and Narcissa alone. She had seen pictures of Lucius and Narcissa posing and had barely recognized her. Though high-maintenance and superciliousness were etched in every razor-sharp feature of Narcissa's face, happiness had made her glow. It seemed reasonable to assume that the death of her husband had taken all light and youth from Narcissa. Sometimes, though, when Ginny and she were in the garden together, Draco's future wife could almost see the ghost of cheerfulness flit across Narcissa's face. And though she was growing to appreciate the woman, she couldn't help but feel that Lucius' widow may have deserved the blow fate had dealt her.

Ginny sat on the highest step of the stairs, shrouded in the darkness of the corridor. That way she could listen to people's conversations as they arrived. She was strangely reminded of eavesdropping back at the Burrow. She took off her high-heeled sandals and waited. First came the Devenports, recognizable by the intolerable, high pitch of Mrs. Devenport's voice. The Parkinsons and Zabinis arrived soon after, and Ginny was not surprised to hear Narcissa greeting Catalina Zabini with great amiability. From what she understood, the two women had been to Hogwarts together before Zabini had run away with the DADA teacher at the time. The Notts were next, followed by the Silverspring, the Bullstrodes, the Crabbe, and the Prewetts. Ginny's heart did a double take upon hearing the name. Though her mother had been very close to her twin brothers, Fabian and Gideon, she had never mentioned any other relative. As far as Ginny was concerned, the Prewetts had disinherited Molly when she had eloped with Arthur, and that had been the end of it. The young woman was so lost in thought and in the hope that they would not be able to recognize her that she did not hear the smooth steps behind her.

“I've been looking for you,” a deep voice murmured in her ear.

She started, the words echoing those repeated by the dark haired wizard whose high pitched, cold laugh and bloody eyes ruled her nightmares. But when a soft kiss fell on her shoulder, shortly followed by one in the neck, Ginny's sudden tension vanished and she leaned into Draco's embrace. One hand around her waist, he picked up her shoe with the other.

“Are you sure Cinderella wasn't your great-grandmother?”

Ginny giggled.

“No, but Comfortable is not those shoes' middle-name.”

“Women….” Draco shrugged.

As he had a few weeks before, he took hold of her foot and placed it in the sandal. As he fastened its straps, however, he let one of his hands slide up Ginny's calf to her knee.

“Oh,” she said, and the smile Draco had grown to adore bubbled at her lips. Every time he held her, or kissed her, or caressed her, he was sure to see that smile appear, often accompanied by a throaty chuckle.

His hand wandered higher up, discovering as he went that the cut of her dress enabled its folds to be pushed aside easily. She laughed, and the mellifluous sound broke his self-control. In an instant he was kneeling on the step below the one where she sat, had pushed her thighs apart, and pressed himself against her. She responded immediately, her hands in his hair, and her tongue in his mouth, one shoeless foot tracing patterns in the air.

“Ahem,” a ghost servant Ginny had never seen coughed.

“What is it, Godfried?” Draco snapped as Ginny blushed and rearranged her dress.

“Mistress Malfoy says you may come down now,” Godfried said, looking highly relieved to already be dead. Then he vanished.

“She said that, did she now,” Draco purred, turning to Ginny and placing his hands on her hips again.

“Wha—I doubt she meant that,” Ginny said, her cheeks now an unladylike shade of red.

“Hmmm come to think of it, you're probably right.” He helped her up and gave her a long, demanding kiss. “Shall we?”

“We shall,” she replied mockingly.

Ginny linked her arm through Draco's, hoping she didn't have any marks where he had kissed. She didn't think the guests would appreciate what could only be qualified as post- private display of affection. They walked down the steps casually, Draco's ease infusing her own movements with a cool grace. They reached the vestibule where their guests, used to the etiquette, awaited the arrival of the lord and lady of the house. Upon seeing Ginevra at Draco's arm, however, more than one whisper was heard; it was the first time one of his girlfriends had taken the place of Narcissa. Pansy, brighter than the Gryffindors had ever given her credit for, knew what to expect and emptied her glass hastily.

Draco and Ginny made their way from couple to couple, greeting, welcoming, enquiring about so and so's health, garden, or children. When Ginny was introduced to Hadrien and Sigrid Prewett, however, she did not miss the questioning look Hadrien gave her. Peering into honey-colored eyes that so resembled her own, she did not have to wonder why. She confidently overplayed her Bulgarian accent and haughtiness, and made sure she did not smile when scrutinized by Hadrien Prewett, for she knew her smiles were warm like Molly Weasley's had been.

Draco, meanwhile, utterly unaware of Ginny's tortured thoughts, made small talk with all wizards and witches present. Narcissa, between two discussions, threw surreptitious glances at the two. She had grown increasingly fond of Ginevra and of her feistiness, though more than once, she'd had the intuition that the young woman wasn't being entirely honest. The way she froze when near Hadrien Prewett, for one, made Narcissa wonder. Gradually, she managed to usher the guests toward the dining room, where they all found their seats and prepared themselves to savor dinner. After they had been seated, however, Draco rose, helping Ginny to her feet as well, and coughed. All eyes were soon upon him. Ginny wanted nothing more than to disappear.

“My friends, thank you for coming,” Draco began, loud and clear. “It has been a while, I'm afraid, since the last dance at Malfoy Manor; I could not bring myself to make you wait any longer, and I hope you will find this night as enchanting as our past soirees, if not more. And while I'm on the topic of enchanting events and parties, I gladly invite you all to my wedding with Ginevra Vassil, two weeks from now. You will receive invitations of course. That being said, enjoy!”

He kissed Ginny on the temple as polite applause broke out, then they both sat down and dinner appeared. Ginny saw the looks of wonder on people's faces, attributing their stupefaction to the announcement being on such short notice. She did not understand that what truly surprised them, when it did not upset them, was the fact that Draco Malfoy, sole descendant of the prestigious Malfoy and Black families, was about to marry a woman emerged from nowhere a month before. Pansy Parkinson had finished her fifth glass of champagne. Draco let his gaze wander about the room, content with the reaction he had provoked. He had always enjoyed provocation, and Ginevra's being an instrument of it made her all the more lovable.

***

Narcissa and Ginny sat on a divan, watching the images that flashed before them in the center of the room. Narcissa groaned upon seeing yet another proposition of a “pink and white” marriage and banished the rose-cluttered decorations with one swish of her wand.

I bet mum would have loved pink and white for a wedding, Ginny thought bitterly. Thank Merlin Fleur had the courage to insist on having a “gold” wedding. It had been, of course, an admirable choice, as Fleur had never appeared so divine, and even Bill, despite the dark scars lacerating his face, had been radiant. Charlie had briefed Ginny on Slavic countries, Fred and George had found a delighted admirer in Gabrielle Delacour, and Molly Weasley had cried like a fountain. They had all acted so much like themselves, despite the increasingly bad tidings and constant news of death, and Ginny couldn't help but be grateful for that. Along with Christmas, Bill's wedding was the last time she had seen her family happily reunited.

“Ginevra?” Narcissa interrupted her reverie.

“Huh—yes?”

“What about a golden theme? I think it would be ideal for you and Draco. Not to mention that it could be absolutely superb. People would be talking about it for ages… And I know just what jewelry you could wear. What do you think?”

“Sure, why not?” Ginny said, hoping Narcissa would persist in her idea. Then her own wedding would be a tribute to her lost ones. How symbolic, she mused.

“Lovely, that's settled then,” Narcissa told the woman who patiently stood behind them. “We'll take the gold wedding. Though I suppose your people will take care of everything, I want every decision to be approved by myself before anything is done. Is that clear?”

“Of course, Madam.”

“Good. Have the invitations sent to Malfoy Manor, our personnel will send them. Now, about the location….”

They settled for Rivendell (1), the city once inadvertently discovered by a Muggle named Tolkien. The elven city had a number of pavilions spread out throughout the forest, and the elves gladly rented them to wizards looking for a magnificent setting. And Ginny understood Narcissa's choice when she saw the archways of glass suspended between the trees, the curtains of flowers and Chinese lanterns, mineral and vegetal combining to satisfy a wizard's most outlandish fantasies.

“Perfect,” Narcissa said at last, sounding like she didn't mean it in a true display of Malfoy manner. “Come, Ginevra. We must find you a dress.”

Ginny fought back the urge to groan. If finding her a wedding dress was half as bad as garnishing her wardrobe had been, then she was in for quite a nightmare. The Donkey Skin (2) salesclerk immediately recognized them and was at their side in a second. The word “wedding dress” was the magic key to the shop's third floor, where Ginny had to undress herself once again in front of the women's calculating looks.

“Well, I see things have progressed,” Narcissa noted absentmindedly upon seeing Ginny's rather racy lingerie.

Ginny blushed, thrown off the beat by Narcissa's unpredictable behavior. The salesclerk ushered a number of boxes in the room.

“Does Madam have anything in mind?” she directly asked Narcissa.

“Yes, as a matter of fact I do. I'd like something curve-fitting—though she doesn't have too many, thank goodness—so it doesn't look like a Puffskein colony has taken up residence under her skirts. Also, not a bleach white dress; find me something that's off-white, or cream-white if you must, but not just white. Ginevra, dear, anything else?”

“Me? Oh no, no,” Ginny said, letting herself be taken care of by Narcissa's Molly-like authority.

During the hour that followed, a succession of dresses laced, strapped, and wrapped around Ginny. Narcissa was extraordinarily picky and sent them all away without a second thought. At last, she found a dress that caught her interest. Off-white as she had requested it, it was a strapless silk dress that flared ever so slightly below the knee. An opening by the left knee revealed the delicately embroidered pettiskirt, which extended to the back to form a short train.

“Finally, something worth further attention,” Narcissa sighed with relief. “However, this is still unsatisfactory. Who should I address myself to in order to make modifications to this dress?”

The sales woman stared at Narcissa as if she had just revealed she was Muggle- born.

“But, Madam, these are original creations—“

“Yes, I know that,” Narcissa snapped coldly. “Is Donkey Skin in the vicinity?”

“I, uh, no—but we can contact her if you wish.”

“Please do. If possible, tell her to come immediately. Tell her Narcissa Malfoy wishes to buy one of her dresses, but wants it arranged before she does so.”

Ginny was shocked by Narcissa's attitude. As much as she liked the dress, even as it was, she hoped Donkey Skin would refuse; she could not imagine an original creation being tampered with by someone whose situation should not have allowed her such rudeness. They were served some tea as the salesclerk disappeared to make some calls.

“Do you like the dress, Ginevra?”

“Yes, it's really beautiful. I don't think it really needs—“

“Wait until you see what I have in mind,” Narcissa stopped her. “I know that what I asked for is quite discourteous, but I can promise you it will be worth it. Besides,” she added haughtily, “it's either that or we'll have your dress custom-made from head to toe.”

Ginny could have sworn the assistants had heard, for soon after, the salesclerk returned.

“Madame Donkey Skin will be here in a moment,” she said breathlessly.

“Marvelous,” Narcissa said, giving the poor woman a contented smile.

A few minutes later, an incredibly old woman walked in the room. Her gray hair was tied in long tresses, her face a mangle of wrinkles amidst which burned two charcoal eyes. She was dressed soberly but impeccably, and even Ginny, with her limited knowledge of haute-couture, could tell that her robes had cost a small fortune.

“Madame Donkey Skin, I am very honored to meet you,” Narcissa said.

“Hmm. Likewise, I suppose.” Her voice quavered. “I have been told you wished to arrange the dress the girl is wearing?”

“That's right,” Narcissa answered, unabashed. “I find it beautiful but too plain.”

“You know, Mrs. Malfoy, sometimes plainness is more fashionable than lavishness.”

Ginny, her face a mask of neutrality, was enjoying the discussion.

“I trust you to know that, but for my son's wedding I would rather go for lavishness.”

“Your son—“ Donkey Skin turned inquisitively to Ginny.

“That's my future daughter-in-law.”

“Yes, I had guessed she couldn't be your own. The girl is too silent and modest for that.”

Ginny repressed a smile.

“She is, and that will have to change. In the meantime, we are not here to discuss my son's choice of a bride. Perhaps we could discuss ameliorations enrichment of the dress together and see if we are both satisfied. I would, of course, pay double the price if that were the case.”

An amused glint sparkled in Donkey Skin's eyes. The two women retreated to a corner of the room where Ginny saw Narcissa gesturing, Donkey Skin shaking her head, Narcissa agitating her hands some more until Donkey Skin, intrigued, nodded. The old woman brandished her wand and said, “Subrideo Tela”. Creases formed at the sides of the dress, looking like half stars. Then she added, “Alba flora,”(3) and flowers of lace bloomed from the opening at the knee, lined with spidery, gold threads.

“Hmm,” Donkey Skin grumbled. “Hum, hum, hummm…”

She shot a few extra spells at the dress, adding threads of gold to the train and conjuring a veil to sit on Ginny's head. Once she had adjusted it, she stepped back. Both Narcissa and Donkey Skin bore a look of triumph; Ginny knew better than to say anything.

“Perfect,” Narcissa said, and this time Ginny heard the excitement in her voice.

“Yes, I have to admit you have an eye for details,” Donkey Skin said. She bowed to Mrs. Malfoy, who bowed as well—Ginny had never seen her do so, especially not to a shop-owner, and the sight made her happy.

That day, they purchased matching shoes and visited a traiteur. Ginny, whose culinary understanding equaled Narcissa's, was finally able to give her opinion. Together they ordered food enough to feed an army, enlisting the aid of waiters, bartenders and cooks galore. Then they returned to the Manor.

“Tell me,” Narcissa suddenly asked Ginny, “your mother is dead, isn't she?”

Shock made Ginny speechless. Had she been unmasked? Did Narcissa know who, exactly, was responsible for her mother and her family's death? Sadness brutally overcame her and she glared at Narcissa.

“Yes, I thought so,” Narcissa continued. “No family jewelry?”

Relief coursed through Ginny. She shook her head. She hadn't been to Gringotts' Bank to claim her heritage and family possessions, unsure whether the Goblins' discretion would extend to someone as poor as herself.

“I'm sorry,” Narcissa said, and Ginny did not know whether she was referring to her mother or jewelry. “I hope you will not be offended if I take the role that would have been your mother's and explain to you the specifics of the first ceremony.”

“First ceremony?” Ginny asked, surprised.

“There is the event that we have been preparing for; everyone is invited to it. That is only the second ceremony. Only you and Draco will participate in the first. His father explained it to him when he came of age. I suppose your mother didn't have time to do the same with you.”

That's right, Ginny thought angrily. And I have your family to blame for it. She managed a sheepish smile, however, and it took all her strength to thank Narcissa. Draco's mother brought Ginny to her room, where she began explaining the meaning and the steps of the Wizarding wedding ceremony.

(1) Much as I would have loved to invent Rivendell, this city is Tolkien's and Tolkien's alone. We are first introduced to it in The Fellowship of the Ring, first volume of the Lord of the Rings trilogy.

(2) Likewise, and I'm afraid I forgot to say so in the first chapters, Donkey Skin and her sun, moon, and rainbow-colored dresses are the fruit of Perrault's fantastic imagination.

(3) “Tela subrideo” from the Latin words, “subrideo” meaning smile and “tela” meaning cloth. I have not studied Latin, forgive me that I do not respect declinations. Likewise, “Alba flora” could be decomposed as “alba”, meaning white, and “flora”, flower.

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Hesperides' Apple

Chapter 6

Ginny walked down the completely dark corridor. When light from the outside no longer guided her footsteps, she whispered, “Lumos”. She saw the perfectly straight walls of the passageway, engraved with spells she had never heard of in her life. As she progressed, the neat cursive gave way to sharper Gothic writing, which in turn veered toward the Greek, then Phoenician alphabet. By the time Ginny got to Hieroglyphs, she understood she was symbolically walking back in time, walking toward the origin of writing, spells, and wizardry. Pictograms so old they were half erased creased the walls when Ginny arrived to a cave. A pool of clear water illuminated the grotto with a soothing, blue light. Ginny kept walking straight until the water reached her thighs.

When her dress became peculiarly heavy, she took it off. She walked on, naked, the water now at her waist, now at her neck, until she had to swim altogether. The minute she put her head underwater, a chill sensation surged through her. When she emerged, however, she felt purged, though from what, she could not tell. Ginny continued, surprised at the warmth that emanated from the walls of the corridor. Passing her hand through her hair, she realized it curled richly. She checked its color and was extremely relieved to see it was still blonde. Apparently, the pool could only wash her from spells, but not from Muggle means of dissimulation. She arrived to a circular room where a huge fire was roaring. Her skin tingled from excitement.

***

Draco lazily flicked his wand. Everywhere around him, spells appeared, carved in the walls by generations of wizards before him. He quickened his pace, knowing what awaited him at the end of the tunnel. When he found himself facing a pool, he quickly unrobed himself. Lucius Malfoy had explained him that the clothes one wore to the wedding ceremony were the incarnation of one's past. Draco's past being particularly dark, he was certain that his clothes would become too heavy for him to even step into the pool without sinking. He admired the reflection of his lean, impeccably sculpted body in the pool before walking in. He quickly swam to the other side.

Draco braced himself for the upcoming room. As he walked down an increasingly warm corridor, he wasn't surprised to feel a hungry kiss on his torso, shortly followed by other lingering touches. Memories of the women he had been with coiled around him, their skin soft and cool against his, their hands clearly acquainted with his body. Draco breathed, trying to clear his mind. Then the memory of the few nights spent with Ginevra assailed him. He stopped, panting.

Damn it, I want her. I want her now. What is wrong with me, why did I wait? Draco willed himself to walk on. As he did so, his desire diminished and his skin cooled down. Rationality slowly regained control. Because I felt she was worth this… this irritating ceremony. With one last kiss, the memory of Ginny's body beneath his left him alone. He sighed, relieved. He finally reached a room with a low ceiling. In its center, a pyre was burning. Three young men walked up to him, each carrying a large bowl. Their bodies were extremely pale and their hair very dark. Though hesitant breasts peaked from their torsos, they were undeniably also male. They faces, soft and well-defined at the same time, were awkward to look at. Draco made it a point to stare at their neither male nor female figures, if only not to look down.

***

Ginny eyed the hermaphrodites uncertainly. Something in their almost reptilian demeanor made her uncomfortable. When they began anointing her with a golden paste, she was surprised by their soft, soothing touch. They drenched her hair in scented oil, and then motioned her to walk through the fire.

Don't worry about the fire, it isn't real. Well, it is real, but it won't hurt you. It's just another ritual of purification, Narcissa had said. So Ginny stepped in front of the brazier and, closing her eyes, stepped forward. The flames licked her hair, pulling it up in unctuous arabesques, coiling around her arms and legs. Not an inch of her skin was burnt when she reached the small circular room, the last one of her journey. The floor was of a malleable, blue soil. The walls appeared to be marble, but very quickly morphed into high, stained-glass windows that merged in a vertiginous peak. Below the colorful glass, in the center of the room, was a figure, draped from head to toe in a robe seemingly weaved from light.

Behind the figure, Draco walked into the room. Suddenly realizing she was naked, Ginny instinctively moved her hands to hide herself—somehow the fact that they had spent a number of nights in close proximity did not cross her mind at that point. Draco, however, saw her gesture. His body was still alert from his journey in the previous rooms; he could not help but think of those nights. He smirked and leered at her. She grinned and moved her hands away, having felt the hardened gold that was now like a second skin on her own. He licked his lips playfully. She stuck her tongue at him.

And we're getting married? Dear Merlin, Ginny thought, torn between amusement and resignation.

Hmmmmm, Draco thought narrow-mindedly.

“Draco, son of the sons of Lug Mal Foi,” rang a crystal-clear voice. The robed figure gestured to Draco, and then, turning to Ginny, continued, “Ginevra, daughter of the daughters of Vegoia Vassili.”

They both advanced to the center of the room until they found themselves facing each other, only separated by what both Narcissa and Lucius, for lack of better term, had called the Priestess.

“Flesh of man's flesh, fruit of wizards' blood, Draco, son of Lug Mal Foi, are you here conscious and willing?” the priestess chanted.

“Yes, I am,” he said confidently.

“To share your roof and hearth, to bring nourishment and comfort, Draco, son of Lug Mal Foi, are you willing?”

“Yes, I am,” Draco repeated.

“To protect and support her, to love her and her children, Draco, son of Lug Mal Foi, are you willing?”

“Yes, I am,” he said again.

The Priestess then turned to Ginny and repeated her three questions. Ginny's answers were soft but firm. Yes, she was willing. The Priestess raised her arms, and from the stained glass above them, descended a rather long and ornamented dagger. It hovered in front of the Priestess, who gestured welcomingly to Draco and Ginny. Draco stepped forward, grabbing the dagger as Ginny presented her forearm. He took her hand in his, holding her by the wrist, and in one swift movement, he drew a superficial cut in her skin. Blood pearled along the cut. Giving her an unreadable look, Draco then handed Ginny the knife.

A flash of demented satisfaction whizzed in her eyes, her fingers wrapping knowingly around the dagger's handle.

She cut him quickly, expertly, infusing her movement with sufficient incertitude to justify the unnecessary pressure. Draco barely winced as the blade incised his skin and flesh, and Ginny had to admire his self-control; she had settled for the arm rather than the throat but delivered the blow in no delicate way. The knife began melting, forming as it did so a luminous rope. It tied around Ginny and Draco's arms, bringing them together until their blood had touched and mingled.

“Children of days older and darker than you could imagine, do you wish to be joined for life?”

“Yes,” Draco and Ginny answered together, causing wiry tentacles of light to wrap around their arms up to the shoulder.

“Children of nights sweeter and clearer than you have seen, do you wish to be joined for hope?”

“Yes,” they said, and the tentacles reached passed their chest, sinking into their hearts.

“Children of the seasons that come and go, of the flowers that wither and fruits that ripen, of the animals killed and born, of things much greater than you could conceive, do you wish to be joined for love?”

“Yes,” Draco answered, willing himself not to snigger at the ever present notion of love. Immediately, the tentacles slid around his face and dug into his eyes. For a fleeting moment, he saw himself holding Ginny, her face contorted with fury and her hair a throbbing mass of red around it, his own traits the image of perfect composure he wore best when hurt.

“Y-es,” Ginny repeated after a second's hesitation. All she could do now was pray that the promise would not bind her too much—but as tongues of light bore into her eyes, she saw a red-headed and round-bellied woman seated, facing her husband in silence. His gray eyes betrayed nothing, whereas hers, lost, wounded, spoke of failed attempts, unwanted pregnancy, and a spark of repressed love.

The flaming tentacles dimmed until Draco and Ginny could open their eyes. They looked at each other as if facing their future, aware that they had just bound themselves to each other—for life, supposedly. They stood up, hand in hand still, and walked out of the room, not turning back for fear of losing what they had just won. They emerged from the sunken galleries of hieroglyphs, turquoise pools, and pyres. The night, fresh and humid, caught them with a sprinkle of well-anchored stars. Ginny breathed in, looking up to see the tree's dark fingernails like lace against the sky. Draco slid his arm around her waist and, pulling her to him, kissed her fervently. She pressed against him instinctively. As their steps carried them away from the cave, the memory of their visions blurred. They Apparated to the Manor.

***

Darkness alone enveloped Draco and Ginny, the bed sheets having long relinquished that function. His body, humid and glistening with sweat, washed over her like a wave on the beach. She would smile, laugh, and moan as he fulfilled her. Her initial surprise at actually enjoying the feel of him inside her had quickly subsided, giving way to immoderate pleasure. He brought her to the brink again and again, nourishing the delight that churned in her body, until his senses exploded. After one last vigorous thrust, he stood still, rigid, feeling her around him, and then collapsed atop her. Ginny, her hands on his back, legs still wrapped around him, unsure of the contentment she was experiencing, did not move.

The final chills of pleasures slithered from his skin to hers, binding them tighter than Ginny could ever have imagined. Eventually, he slid out of her and pulled her into his arms. She kissed him tenderly. She fell asleep, leaving him to savor this new piece of magic. A small smile crept on his lips.

I don't know who was your first, he thought, but you were a virgin of pleasure and no longer are.

And that, as he well knew, had been sufficient to solidly link two people long before Christianity and its idealization of virginity had made the first time the only one that mattered.

***

Ginny took Hadrien Prewett's hand, cursing Fate for making him the Malfoys' closest, living, male relative. She knew that behind her veil she was unrecognizable, particularly since he had never seen her in person, but she couldn't quell her unease. They walked down the aisle, slowly, her dress trailing behind her. Behind the altar stood Frollo Yaxley, Minister of Blood Purity, clad in dark-red robes. To his left, Draco, his imposing features softened by the look of surprise and happiness Ginny's arrival had caused, was eyeing his bride greedily.

Midday light was dimmed by the thick foliage that rose high above Rivendell, so that everything was bathed in a white half-shadow. Ginny, relying on the protection given by her veil, glanced about her as she neared Draco. She knew very few of the richly dressed witches and wizards, though she was neither surprised nor glad to recognize a few. Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange, their once savage and emaciated features made plump by a year of respectable existence, stood next to their daughter Cecilia and little Leo. At Cecilia's side were Vivian Silverspring, three men who looked like her brothers, and their parents, all so tall and blond they could have been elves. Narcissa Malfoy, regal and calmly delighted, couldn't tear her eyes from her son's figure. The love and pride she bore him were limpid, visible to all.

On the other side of the aisle, Blaise Zabini stood next to Catalina, his mother, a startlingly gorgeous woman of dark skin and fair eyes. Next to them were a young woman whose milk-toffee skin looked delicious, emerging as it did from her beige dress, and a man whose arm was thrown paternally around her shoulders. Ginny guessed that they were Serafina and Mister Zabini, and she immediately conceived great dislike and jealousy for the former when she noticed the longing look she was giving Draco. Pansy Parkinson, flanked by her clearly unhappy parents, had dark circles around her eyes and a pale-green dress, both of which made her look unhealthily pale.

Behind them, right and left, were scattered the Goyles, Flints, Crabbes, Davies, Goldstein, and few others whose resemblance to Hogwarts students was striking. Of the two hundred or so present, Ginny could call none friend or family, except for, unfortunately—

Hadrien Prewett, his gray hair still streaked with pale orange, kissed Ginny's hand and handed her over to Draco Malfoy. The groom pressed four little kisses on her fingers, and then guided her to the altar where they kneeled before Frollo Yaxley. The Minister peered at them from above his crooked nose, his icy eyes squinting in a way that made his entire face appear demented.

“Welcome, wizards and witches, to the celebration of the union between Draco Malfoy and Ginevra Vassil,” Frollo Yaxley began, his voice like a blunt razor. “This man, descendant of a most noble pure-blooded family, is an examp—“

Ginny promptly stopped listening to the old man's eugenic sermon, feeling her temper rise when he started lauding the purity of both their bloods and how that was precisely what the future of wizard kind needed. Beside her, Draco was playing idly with her fingers; more than once he repressed a sigh, knowing that the assembly of their guests scrutinized them eagerly to find a flaw, and that appearing bored on one's wedding would be a major blunder.

“—do you wish to take Ginevra Vassil as your wife?”

“I do,” Draco answered just in time.

“And Ginevra Vassil, do you wish to take Draco Malfoy as your husband?”

“I do,” she said, having been brought back to reality by the sound of Draco's voice.

Yaxley made their wands hover above the altar then murmured “Nuptaligo”. A bubble formed around the wands, deflating until they were coated with its silver wall.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife,” Yaxley announced as the silver shimmer disappeared from the wands.

Thunderous applause arose. Draco helped Ginny up and lifted the veil off her face. He peered into her golden eyes and sealed her uncertain smile with a kiss. She responded passionately. As the clapping subsided, they turned to the guests and smiled. More than one person was startled to note the resemblance they bore to Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy at that moment. Showers of flowers sprinkled everyone with white. Draco and Ginevra Malfoy walked up the aisle, Ginny nestled in his arms, Draco's eyes filled with contentment. Flashes crackled, illuminating the happy couple with lightning-like flares.

Narcissa seized Draco and Ginny's hands, beaming.

“You make me so happy,” she said softly, the truth in her words revealed by the sparkle in her eyes.

Draco kissed her hand deferentially, but Ginny, overwhelmed by the happenings, embraced her mother-in-law in a warm hug. At first it felt like holding a doll made of wooden sticks, so thin, fragile, and rigid Narcissa seemed, but when she relaxed into the hug, Ginny felt like she had achieved something. Draco watched them, imperceptibly touched. He was then monopolized by Blaise Zabini, who slapped him in the back and congratulated him about marrying such a fine witch.

“You don't know her,” Draco growled, half-amused, half-irritated.

“No, I don't,” Blaise answered absently, as if precisely he did but didn't feel like sharing his thoughts. “I don't…”

Draco accepted the congratulations of Horst, Catalina, and Serafina Zabini, the latter of which kept throwing languorous looks at the groom. Blaise murmured, “Vixen,” in her ear but laughed pleasantly at his little sister's infatuation. The Parkinsons were next, distinctively warmer with Draco than they were with Ginny. When the four of them began talking of the good old times, Pansy's complexion brightening as she saw Ginny ignored, the new Mrs. Malfoy looked about and grinned calmly to all the bystanders. Suddenly, the air was knocked out of her by a little body.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Leo Lestrange said, his arms around her hips, his face on her stomach.

“Hello there,” Ginny said, her smile now genuine. “What's up, little Leo?”

“I managed to make Bluebell Flames,” he whispered. “Of course, they weren't blue, they were actually pink, but that doesn't matter much, does it?”

“No, of course not. Congratulations,” Ginny said, bending to ruffle his hair.

“Actually, he should be the one congratulating you,” a rich, grave voice said.

Ginny looked up and found herself peering into Bellatrix Lestrange's dark, heavy-lidded eyes. The woman was dressed in somber prune, her thick and glossy hair hanging down her back. Next to her, Rodolphus Lestrange eyed her leeringly, and Ginny understood who Leo had inherited his clear blue eyes from. Something in Rodolphus' gnarled features, in his aquiline nose, hollow cheeks, and aggressive lips made Ginny feel uncomfortable, and she turned to greet Cecilia Lestrange.

“Congratulations,” Cecilia said, her hair sliding from her thin shoulders to partially dissimulate her face. It formed a dark brown curtain, behind which her shady eyes and voluptuous lips often hid. Ginny could not tell how similar to her parents Cecilia was, since despite her usually distant and effaced manners, she sometimes displayed bursts of violence that reminded Ginny of Bellatrix.

“Thank you,” Ginny said, repeating her thanks as Bellatrix and Rodolphus added their congratulations to their daughter's.

They moved on to Draco, Bellatrix exasperatedly shoving Leo ahead of her. The Bullstrodes and Goyles followed shortly, congratulating Ginny as if they had known her all their life. Pansy Parkinson, Millicent Goyle and Romilda Nott pounced on Ginny like unsatisfied Erinyes.

“Congratulations, my dear,” Romilda purred, effusively kissing Ginny.

“Yes,” Millicent engulfed Ginny in her rather bulky arms, her heavy jaw kissing more of Ginny's cheeks than her lips did.

Pansy had stayed a little behind, eyeing Ginny, as usual, with a mix of resentment and defeat. She walked up to the bride and took her hands in hers. Parkinson's violet gaze plunged in Ginny's amber eyes.

“You know I am not happy about you and Draco getting married,” she said slowly, speaking her dislike for the first time since they had met, “as he was supposed to become my husband. I can't bring myself to wish you a happy marriage, and I won't. But know that if I do resent you for this, I will get over it, and that the only congratulations you will get for me are congratulations for managing to tie Draco down.”

Ginny stood there, shocked by her soft bluntness, almost touched by it. She thought of how she would have felt if a mysterious girl had emerged out of nowhere and swept Harry off his feet and away from her, despite everyone's wish that Ginny became Ginevra Potter, and she understood. She hugged Pansy, who tensed immediately, but returned the gesture, awkwardly.

Vivian Silverspring congratulated Ginny, her manners smooth, her speech sounding rehearsed, as she then introduced her brothers, Gawain, Gaheris, and Garet. They bowed to her and threw her a winsome smile, the same plastered grin on their three handsome faces. She returned it, superficial and bright, and with it she greeted other guests until her maxillaries ached. Eventually, the flow of guests diminished as they were ushered toward the dining pavilion. Draco, who had been overwhelmed with his father's old friends and wives, pulled himself from all the inconsequential chatter to find Ginny. She was busy blowing kisses at Lorelei Prewett, her unsuspecting cousin, who had had the misfortune of being, according to her family, a Squib. Lorelei was one of the children Ginny often visited when she went to the MCCD.

“Save those kisses for someone who needs them, woman,” Draco growled.

“Like who?” Ginny asked innocently, wrapping her arms around his neck.

He kissed her, and the crystalline noise that she made when happy emanated from her throat. She pressed herself against him urgently. He ended the kiss when he realized he had begun tugging on her dress.

“Come on,” he said, his voice husky, “the dinner won't start without us.”

“I'm not hungry,” she pouted, “for food, at least.”

His eyes, dark with desire, begged her to say no more. So Ginny grinned, caressed his cheek, and, taking his hand, dragged him to the dinner pavilion.

They joined their guests under the cascades of cloth that formed the pavilion. Draco and Ginevra sat next to each other at the major table. Next to Draco sat Narcissa, and next to Ginny, Blaise. She was beginning to understand the extent of the Gryffindors' misconceptions regarding the relation between Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle; they had completely miscalculated, as it was becoming clear to her that Blaise Zabini had truly been Malfoy's second—if anyone's second at all.

The appetizers were being served when Blaise ended the conversation he was having with Pansy and stood up. He tapped his wand against his wine-glass, a loud, clear tinkle ringing as he did so.

“Witches and wizards, welcome to the wedding of Draco and Ginevra Malfoy!” Blaise began, accompanying his speech with a heart-melting smile and large gestures. “It gives me great pleasure to be here, in your company, in their company, and to celebrate a union which promises to bring much happiness to the entire Wizarding community.” His words sounded oddly like Frollo Yaxley's, though he managed to add a hint of derision in his tone that made Ginny wonder. “I met Ginevra a few weeks ago, and I have to say, Draco, you made the right choice. Has anyone ever met a more charming woman? Look at her, please, and tell me. Have you ever, in your life, run into a witch whose beauty is more startling, whose wit is more tantalizing, whose natural grace—“

Narcissa coughed.

“Oh yes, that's right… I am Draco's best man, not Ginevra's… So, as I was saying, Draco and I have been friends since we were born. Well, since he was born at least, as I am the oldest—and, as such, smarter, nicer, much more handsome, though that didn't prevent him from stealing most of my girlfriends during and after Hogwarts. In any case, we were raised together; we learned how to walk together, how to play Quidditch together, how to do magic and yield a wand together—remember, Draco, how those games ended?”

Narcissa and Catalina Zabini exchanged amused glances, knowing full well that. at the time, they hadn't been particularly pleased to find a wand emerging from Blaise's nose or Draco's ear.

“We discovered girls at about the same time, too. Cecilia, I must say, we are both dreadfully sorry for those pigtails of yours we cut that one time. And Pansy, we truly didn't mean for you to fall from the tree house, though you have to admit, you were asking for it, trying to bully us around… But that's beside the point now, as we quickly became paragons of maturity and virtue. Our years at Hogwarts were, ah… more controlled, shall we say, though they prepared us well for our entry into the world.”

That's a nice euphemism, saying that bullying students in the year below prepared you to become Death Eaters. Couldn't have put it better myself, Ginny thought.

“But when we got out, oh man,” Blaise continued impudently, “those were the days. You were at the head of the Malfoy empire, I began understanding the complexity of my father's job, and we would meet at the end of the week to moan about our work and get trashed in pubs all over the world.”

Few were those who chuckled, but they were the ones who had either followed the young men there or seen their faces and read of their doings in the press the next morning.

“But that also taught us something.” Incredulous grins met that statement. “No, no, I mean it. We learned that, first, work, no matter what you may think, is never as painful as a hangover; second, real friends will stay with you no matter what. Pansy, Cecilia, Vivian, thank you for stupefying us that time when we thought running around naked in Muggle London could be fun. And third, listen to your elders, particularly when they say that mixing Firewhiskey with Pepperup Potion is not a good idea.”

A faintly green tinge appeared on Draco's face as he remembered what the aftermath of that mixture had been. Vivian and Millicent couldn't repress a snigger.

“And then Lucius passed away,” Blaise continued abruptly, dampening the mood, “and Draco stopped going out with us. In fact, he stopped going out, period. No more dinners, dances, crazy parties… He did his work dutifully, but would then disappear. Coincidentally, that was also the time when I managed to keep a girlfriend for more than a month. But even that wasn't worth the look of somber sadness that followed Draco like a shadow. It took Ginevra here—did I already say what a superb young woman she is?—it took Ginevra to bring back the Draco we knew.”

Ginny glanced sharply at Draco. Was it possible that she, of all people, could actually have changed such an imperturbable and cold person? Draco, his lips stretched in a small smile, looked straight at Blaise, neither agreeing nor denying. Narcissa was glad to see that her efforts hadn't been unnoticed.

“Since he met you, Ginevra, he's been to Pansy's reception, he went to Rodolphus' birthday, and he was seen at a few Quidditch games. Hell! He even held his own party! Two, actually, if you include the wedding. So, of course, some will say he still hasn't gotten drunk in the past few weeks or stolen my girlfriend, but we're working on the first problem, and I've fended off the second by not having a girlfriend. That being said, I do hope he will stop cavorting and stick to his lovely wife, because if he doesn't, I most certainly will.”

People laughed and clapped, and Draco gruffly hugged Blaise. Ginny wondered which of her friends would have given a speech about her. Luna? People would have been unnerved. Or maybe Nefer Amon, though Ginny wasn't sure her family would have appreciated what Nefer had to say about their few years at Hogwarts… In the end, it would probably have been Hermione, whose maturity would have depicted an acceptable portrait, and her insight, a realistic one. Said insight had helped them more than once, for better or for worse…

***

Ginny has returned to Durmstrang, haggard, drained by a day of sobbing herself to hoarseness. Hermione, nestled in the couch, is looking at a picture of the Weasley family, Harry, and herself, taken around the time when she and Ron had discovered they might be more than friends. She stares long and hard at it. She is incapable of believing that most of them have been reaped in a single night. She doesn't even think of Harry and Ginny's feelings right now, convinced that their pain is like hers, bottomless and exclusive, shunning commiseration.

A quick, sharp knock on Hermione's door.

She drags herself to the door. Right now, she really, really doesn't care who it is. It could be them, coming to get her like they got the man she loved and his family, but it doesn't matter to her. Nothing does. So she opens the door and finds herself face to face with Percy Weasley.

How did he survive? is the first angry question she asks herself.

But because of the gaunt desolation that has carved the flesh out of his face, and his imploring, “Please,” she lets him in. She allows him to sit on her couch, if only to better kill him afterwards. His eyes are buried in his already emaciated face, a lugubrious glint running through them occasionally. Percy twists his hands. Percy's lips twitch. Percy has guilt inscribed in every inch of his skin, and Hermione knows it.

“I did it,” he croaks.

Only then does she find herself unable to believe him. She needs to know more, however, so, calculatingly, she says what he wants her to say.

“Why?”

“Scrimgeour,” he says, his voice as hollow as the rest of him.

“But the Dark Ma—“

“Don't you get it?” Percy hisses. “I was their Secret-Keeper. That medallion you wear around you neck, with the paper in it, the paper you read “The Burrow” from and that allows you to go there, it has my handwriting on it. You can't not believe me. See for yourself.”

Percy inserts two fingers in his mouth and pulls out a black, pulsating string. He hands it to Hermione, who knows that only grief allows Wizards to pull out such memories from their throats. She knows that, and also that these are not tampered with. They are such a part of one's being that depriving one of these is like plucking one's eyes out. Almost gratefully, Hermione takes the beating memory between her fingers. She goes to her bedroom and bends over her Pensieve, sent to her by Minerva McGonagall after the school had closed. The snake-like reminiscence falls in the Pensieve's whirling mists. A loud crash rings throughout the apartment.

Hermione runs to the living room, sees the broken window and few shards of glass on the floor, runs to the window. January's biting wind rushes into the room. Eight floors down, on the frozen pavement, rests a dark figure, looking very much like a broken jumping-jack.

“Pack!” Hermione shrieks, running back into the bedroom as clothes begin folding on their own and the furniture shrinks.

(1) Lug was, according to the Tuatha De Danann, a god of warrior magic.

(2) Vegoia was, in Etruscan mythology, one of the primordial goddesses, linked to fertility.

(3)“Nuptaligo” comes from nupta, marriage, and ligo, to bind.

(4) Erinyes are, in Greek mythology, the avengers of wrong. They nagged criminals until they became crazy or died.

-->

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.

-->

Hesperides' Apple

Chapter 8

Draco's fingers tapped restlessly on the pile of reports he had received during the past week. A few looks at the numbers had sufficed to assure him that the various companies he owned could not fare well for themselves without his unwavering attention and leadership. The Cleansweep factories would have to close permanently in response to workers' displays of violence. Draco groaned, knowing he should have invested in Nimbus earlier—his trying to accommodate Sevskin had merely resulted in unnecessary loss of capital and no recovery on Cleansweep's part.

He pushed the file off the pile, grabbed a second one. Down by 26.4%... fierce competition… cannot face… new type of demands… He took another file, annoyed to see similar numbers, costs risings, benefits tumbling down, the Luna Nevilum increasingly impotent, the MCCD's results inconsistent, and newly passed international laws preventing him from reacting efficiently to the multiple debacles.

“Mirabella,” he called.

A woman whose face disappeared between her curly brown hair and enormous glasses opened the door.

“I'll need coffee,” Draco snapped, bent over an open file.

Share-holders want to know… Demand 3.5% raise… hesitant to invest in… millions of galleons… Belgium Minister of Economy…

There was a soft knock on the door, to which he responded with a grunt. Mirabella walked in, carrying a porcelain tea-cup. She set it on his desk, then exited the room. Draco flipped a few additional pages, jotting notes as he did so. His hand snaked out to the coffee, which he drained in one quick gulp. The cup disappeared with a `pop'.

Draco kept going through the files during the entire day. Occasionally he would snap a richly carved lighter open, click until the flame sprang from it, and demand to speak to Mr. Sevskin, or Darley, or Narguilian. Mirabella came by regularly to provide Lord Malfoy with his dose of caffeine. Somehow, even that could not brighten his mood, and he grew increasingly sullen and restless as he drifted through stack after stack of letters, documents, and account sheets.

By the time six rolled around, Draco had to restrain himself from using the lighter to ignite the remaining files, which formed a trembling tower on the left corner of his desk. He pushed his chair back, stood up, and Apparated. After the initial dizziness had dispelled, he walked straight out of his study, leaving the green leather and sepia wood behind. He climbed the steps four by four and paced toward the third floor. He found the master bedroom empty, its dark blue velvets and gold lusterless without Ginevra's presence. He walked down to her old room, knowing she often preferred its airy coolness to the royal decoration of the principal bedroom. But she wasn't there, nor was she in her atelier.

“Grainne!” he roared, feeling the frustration build up inside him.

Today was not the right day for Ginny to be off at some tea party or helping incapacitated imbeciles at St. Mungo's. The ghost servant quickly materialized before him, humbly keeping her eyes to the floor.

“Where is Ginevra?”

“She went for a picnic, Master,” Grainne murmured.

A picnic? Of course… There are tables, chairs, divans, sofas, counters, stools, but she would rather eat on the ground.

“I suppose she's outside?” Draco asked, unfamiliar with the very notion of a picnic.

“Yes, Master, in the forest by the stream, I believe.”

On murky ground. Even better… He thought darkly. On any given day, he would have waited for her to come back. He was, however, particularly in need of her soothing presence, of this inexplicable calm that invaded him every time she was near. There were days when she was sparkly and bright, fun like champagne, and others when she was serene, attentive, and concerned, but she was always, always comforting. He was growing to believe that this was his main reason for marrying her—that and, of course, the fact that she surrendered so willingly to his seductive propositions.

Draco headed for the room where the brooms were stored. He mounted his Nimbus 3000, murmuring as he did so, “Reperio Ginevra” (1). From his wand shot a small, silver arrow. It whizzed across the grounds and into the woods, the trace of its passage like a thread of metal in the air. The sun still illuminated the trail, and Draco followed it, his progress unhurried as he reached the woods. He flew swiftly between trees and below branches, slowing down when he heard the rippling whisper of the brook. He ducked as an owl nearly took his head off when diving past him. It landed on the floor next to neatly folded robes. Draco stopped, hidden by the foliage, and watched Ginny's head emerge from the water.

“Hey, Nabuchodonosor, (2)” she said. “Do you have something for me?”

The owl hooted but shook its head. Ginny laughed, muttered, “Oh alright, you lazy bird,” and sat up. Draco's eyes bulged. She stood up, twisting water out of her hair, and rivulets spilled down her round breasts and soft belly, converging at the V of her joined thighs. A jolt of desire shot through Draco as he wondered which Slytherin value, lust or curiosity, he should give in to. He opted for spying, despite his body's vehement protestations and increasingly obvious signals. Ginny had reached the bank and untied the parchment from the owl's claw.

G.

Glad to hear you are doing well. That Brazilian island must have been fun! Did you by any chance spot some Brigadeiros (3) trees? I hear their fruits are the best cure against depression and heart break! Nothing's changed at the Bank; my work is dreadfully boring. Somehow, they figured out I knew more about their bank than they do, despite my having been there only a few months, and are excitedly pushing me up the ladder. I'll spare you the technical stuff, but I assure you that stock-markets, rates of exchange, and currencies are not nearly as complicated as Arthur used to think, or as these people here believe.

On the other hand, all of this has greatly helped me to deal with our problem. I've been asking around, and I've discovered a few suspicious companies here and there. I'll bet you anything that Hortensius Jellylegs is not a Muggle (with a name like that, how could he be?), but he's one of our bank's main clients. Guess who else he works with? None other than your beloved husband.

(How's that going by the way? Please tell me you've been using that spell I showed you.)

I've been doing what I can, and since I am now a counselor for more than one influential CEO (presidents of Muggle companies), I've been making sure that Hortensius Jellylegs and other people involved with Malfoy encounter financial difficulties. It's nothing big yet, but I'm working on it.

Hang in there with all those tea-time hags. I'm sure you'll get your point across very easily with them, which means that it will soon be across all the Wizarding world as well. Take care of yourself.

With love,

--H.

Contentment washed over Ginny as she read Hermione's letter. Draco, by the other side of the stream, wondered whose letter could bring such happiness to his wife. He immediately conceived a startlingly sharp jealousy, but he hushed it. Maybe it was from Leo Lestrange, or Diggory's daughter. He knew for sure it didn't come from the Parkinson, Zabini, or Silverspring families, having met all of their owls through extensive correspondence with their daughters. He scowled.

Ginny conjured a quill and piece of parchment and, laying flat on her stomach, she began to write. Draco let his eyes roam over the hills formed by her bum and shoulders, between which nestled the valley of her back and then, further down, her legs' soft slopes. It didn't take her long to write the letter.

“Nabuchodonosor,” she called, extending an arm to the owl. “Come here.” She attached the parchment to its paw. “Thank you.”

The bird stepped nimbly on its claws, then spread its wings open and took off. As it zoomed past Draco, he swished his wand, thinking, “Stupefy”. The bird stopped mid-air. Draco unraveled the parchment from the hovering owl.

H.

I haven't heard anything new since we came back from Brazil. I'll keep you posted if more comes up, though. I'm learning more about Draco; I don't really know what to think anymore. Don't worry, though.

Send your next owl on Monday, in the afternoon. I'll be at the MCCD with Lorelei Prewett, she won't tell a soul.

Love always,

G.

Draco, incapable of making anything of the letter, committed it to memory. Once the scroll was tucked in Nabuchodonosor's claws again, he Ennervated the owl and turned back to his wife. She was laying down still, face flat on the ground, trying to get a nonplussed butterfly on the reed in her hand. Draco waited a few minutes, amused by her silly game, concerned by the letter. When he thought he could walk in on her without her suspecting that he had seen the exchange of letters, he stepped out of the shadow. She looked up, startled. She smiled like a child who has obtained candy.

“You're home early,” she said, putting her weight on her elbows.

“Actually, it's a little bit later than six o'clock,” he said.

He walked toward her and squatted so that his face loomed over hers. She arched her neck to look at him.

“Then I guess I'm late,” she observed.

“I believe so.”

“Now how, oh how, could I make it up to you?” she said teasingly.

“Well, you could make it down to me,” he said, kneeling.

She laughed and began unbuttoning his pants as he pressed her lips against his.

***

Draco, his eyes closed, his arm around Ginny, had been listening. Her breathing became softer like it usually did, but it lacked the slow regularity she displayed when sleeping. So he listened, patiently, attentively, for the moment when she would get up.

And then she did. She pushed his arm back ever so gently and stepped down from the bed. Draco opened his eyes. Naked, she stood in plain sight. She had gotten her wand and directed it toward her belly, but hesitated for a second. A look of sadness and determination crossed her face, dulled by the moonlit night. “Contraceptio,” Ginny murmured. She winced when the spell, as if sucked in by her navel, crept into her stomach. It glowed a purplish red for a few seconds.

She walked back to the bed, and Draco, having closed his eyes, felt her slide between his arms. He gave her a tight, seemingly sleepy hug. Ginny did not return it. She pressed a kiss on his shoulder, her wet cheek leaving a trail of tears on his skin. After a while, she fell asleep.

***

Blaise Zabini rose from his seat, pulling back his date's chair as he did so. She smiled brightly at the Malfoys, her face a peach with a hint of stolen sunlight.

“Draco, Ginevra,” Zabini began unctuously, “this is Shehzin Mohammad. Darling…” Draco's eyebrow quirked up at the term of endearment. “Draco and Ginevra Malfoy.”

The women exchanged quick pecks. Draco helped Ginny with her seat while Zabini, hidden by the table, caught Shehzin's fingers between his own and pressed them tenderly. They were sitting by one of the rectangular, lotus-lit ponds. Above them, hoisted on three marble steps, loomed a dark Buddha, its arms and belly round, its face the very picture of metal made serenity. Copper lanterns hung from wooden panels and bamboo, throwing indented shadows on the customers and elegant waitresses.

“This is a very nice place,” Ginny said, her eyes voraciously roaming their surroundings. “Good choice, Blaise.”

He looked around him as if surprised to discover a tastefully Eastern decor.

“Well, yes, of course. I mean, thank you,” he quickly amended when Shehzin's knee connected with his thigh. “The food's particularly delicious.”

“That's what he always says, no matter where we go,” Shehzin said conspiratorially.

“That's because I have marvelous taste, very high standards and, luckily, am also extremely generous,” Blaise sniffed.

The remark elicited a smirk from Draco. Ginny and Shehzin laughed at the dark-skinned wizard, whose eyes shone with catlike merriment.

“Mesdames, messieurs, what can I get you as an appetizer?” the maitre d'hotel interrupted.

Their drinks were brought to them in tall, gold-rimmed, crystal glasses. A sip of Mojito launched Blaise into the most elaborate and sarcastic portrait of the witches two tables from theirs. Ginny watched, wide-eyed, as he unveiled their raunchiest secrets coldly, with surgical precision. Shehzin smiled, hovering between uneasiness and indulgence.

“So tell us, Blaise,” Draco cut in as Blaise got ready to attack the following table. “We haven't heard from you since my wedding, and all of a sudden you pop up, suggest we catch dinner, and show up with a striking young woman.” Blaise's arm closed protectively around Shehzin, and Ginny gave her husband a guarded look. “Don't worry, I have no plan to steer Shehzin away from you; my own wife has me too entranced for my thoughts to even wander that way,” Draco smirked. “I do, however, know you are up to something, and since we are old friends, I would rather you cut the Slytherin crap and tell me what's on your mind.”

Zabini roared with laughter. Then, to both Ginny and Draco's surprise, he announced, “Shehzin and I are getting married.”

The young woman's eyes sparkled with happiness. Blaise fervently pressed her hand to his lips.

“Draco, you perceive too much for your own good,” Blaise conceded. “Mother and Serafina both met Shehzin and they certainly didn't see it coming.”

“This may be because it's only been a few months,” Shehzin said. Her voice was rich like honey. “I suppose they will be surprised,” she added thoughtfully. “It really is a short time to—“

“Nonsense,” Blaise interrupted petulantly. Draco was convinced he had never seen his friend so enthralled, except perhaps when he had been declared Great Britain's second most handsome young bachelor, after Draco.

“You know,” Ginny said, “in Great Britain, witches and wizards often marry rapidly, and the marriages last. It's quite different for Muggles.” Draco and Blaise shot her a similarly sharp glance. “But I guess the magic makes it easier to know when it's the right choice. For example, Draco and I got married after a month of knowing each other. As to whether it was the right choice, however, that may be up for discussion,” she finished impishly.

“No Lady Malfoy has ever regretted her choice,” Draco said. “Or regretted it and lived,” he added, looking into Ginny's eyes, his face an inch from hers.

Ginny's heart skipped a beat.

He knows, her mind shrieked.

A flash of amusement crossed Draco's eyes and he smiled wolfishly, then claimed her mouth in such a gentle yet domineering manner than Ginny did not know what to make of his comment. Blaise and Shehzin were laughing pleasantly.

“So, where did you two meet?” Draco asked after he had let go of Ginny's lips.

“Ah, Draco, always asking the right questions,” Blaise sighed.

“In Dhaka (4),” Shehzin said. “I was at the market buying cloth for my older sister's wedding—she was not allowed out for a month before the ceremony—and some Muggle on his bicycle nearly ran into me.” Ginny heard no repugnance in Shehzin's words. “I stepped aside, tripped, and would have fallen had Blaise not caught me. Pretty lame, isn't it?”

“But it was love at first sight,” Blaise said emphatically, devouring Shehzin with his eyes. “So I spent a few weeks in the area, came back for your wedding, then returned to Dhaka. Like you said, Ginevra, it must be magic, but I had never thought my heart could be captured so brutally and completely by anyone, and it was.”

He gave Shehzin a look of fierce passion, which she returned at least as intensely. Ginny, who had endured Ron and Hermione's lovey-dovey instants, Bill and Fleur's relationship at its most dramatic moments, and even her parents' dubious nicknames, found herself somewhat uneasy.

That's what living with Draco Malfoy will do to you, she thought. I doubt his parents were ever so explicitly in love.

Had she turned to Draco at that moment, she would have seen that, far from being uncomfortable, he was gazing at her, curiosity in the gray of his irises. “Captured so brutally and completely,” he mused. This is precisely it. The maitre d'hotel dropped by and took their order.

“So, when is the wedding planned for?” Ginny enquired.

“Well, I have to go back to Dhaka to break the news to my parents. I'm not quite sure how they'll take it,” Shehzin continued, and for the first time that evening, her glorious smile faltered.

“Don't worry. We'll convince them,” Blaise said smoothly.

His tone was confident, but there was a business-like quality to it which Draco immediately perceived. He had heard it when Blaise told him of Serafina getting in trouble, of the Zabini Corporation's wavering finances, or the many times they had plotted, together, the downfall of some particularly arrogant Slytherin. Draco wondered exactly how much convincing their union would require. He promised himself to make sure Blaise obtained what he wanted—and if in the process Draco earned a favor, then it would be all the better.

“So, how do you occupy your days?” Ginny asked Shehzin. “We haven't seen you around at tea parties—” There was no mistaking her derision for solemnity. “—or fundraising events.”

“I just arrived a few days ago,” Shehzin explained. “Blaise appeared to imply that there isn't much to do around here, which I sincerely doubt. As to making acquaintances, `The Malfoys are the only ones you need to know'. Wasn't that what you said, darling?”

Ginny laughed, looking like she couldn't agree more with Blaise's first statement. The dark-haired Slytherin, unabashed, smirked modestly.

“Blaise is right in both regards,” Draco said with a confident grin. “Unfortunately, no witch can marry one of our wizards without having gained approbation from the ladies of our most ancient families. Well, you could,” he corrected, and a small smile lingered on his lips, “but they would make you regret it sorely. Ginevra, maybe you could introduce Shehzin to Pansy and the lot of these harp—“

“Women of high society,” Ginny interrupted. “But yes, I'd be delighted to take you around. I mean, it isn't much fun,” she added conspiratorially, “but the baking sales are often worth it, and sometimes you even meet interesting people. Not that Serafina isn't interesting, of course.”

“Oh, I'm sure she'll come around, eventually. She's still bitter about Draco, though,” Blaise said.

“Who isn't?” the primary concerned asked.

“Well, I suppose Georgiana and Millicent are the only two of the lot you haven't dated so,” Blaise observed.

“You dated Cecilia Lestrange?” Ginny said, aghast, as Draco moaned.

“I don't think `dating' accurately describes my relationship with any of these women, except perhaps Vivian and Serafina.”

“Well, it seems like it's the proper way of putting it,” Shehzin said, her tone innocent, her insinuation less so.

Blaise laughed, wrapping an arm around her shoulders as he did so. Draco was mildly amused, but turned to see Ginny pouting. Seeing his eyes on her, she quickly smiled, but he saw how the lines of her face remained sharp throughout the rest of the evening. Her lips, when not distorted by speech or laughter, would close tightly, their arch subtly drooping toward her chin. Though it pained him to see her miffed, a small, exquisitely Malfoy joy burned in him at the thought of her jealousy. Four stunning young women, dressed in coppery veils, brought their plates to the table. A series of waiters complemented the dishes with various sorts of spices and sauces,

When Shehzin told Ginevra of her volunteering regularly in an orphanage in the vicinity of Dhaka, the two women began discussing their experience working with children. Blaise gazed fondly at his fiancee, then turned to Draco. He was surprised to see affection in the way he looked at his wife. Lucius had never been particularly demonstrative, and Draco, even for one who knew him as well as Blaise did, was not easy to read.

“Father told me times were tough,” Blaise said, keeping his voice low so as not to interrupt the women's conversation. Draco smiled, neither acknowledging nor denying his friend's remark.

“You know, Blaise, for a Slytherin, you are particularly direct.”

“Only with you,” Blaise said without hesitation. “Because you know me well enough to not believe me should I lie, and well enough to know why I'm lying, about what, and to which extent. Being direct is just a way to feed you the information you want and avoid your wrath.”

He spoke jokingly, but they both knew this to be the exact truth.

“The broom industry is a mess,” Draco said, swirling his wine glass indolently. “Competition from Asia and South American is diminishing the value of brooms, and that is not a nice turn of events for good, old English brooms. What's particularly problematic, though—” Draco's using the word “problematic” was equivalent to anyone else saying “nerve-wracking”, “mind-boggling”, “suicide-inducing”. “—is the Belgian Minister of Economy's new decisions.”

“Head of the European Wizarding Confederation?” Blaise asked. Ginny's eyes quickly darted to the men. She began paying less attention to Shehzin's explanation of the Bangladeshi schooling system.

“That's him. The tax rates and new laws are so intricate that this is going to paralyze many countries for a while. I'm going to have to figure out how to bypass them, because making do is too problematic. You should see how much they want to impose me for distribution of the Luna Nevilum antidote! It's ridiculous.”

“It's no longer as efficient, is it?” Blaise asked.

“No, but it still works to a certain degree. It's better than nothing, at least, but the French Delegation of Health and Institute of German Potions and Antidotes will not hear of it anymore. Their blindness is appalling.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“A number of the Malfoy labs are researching an alternate antidote, of course. In fact, it would appear that mistletoe has interesting properties in that respect.” Then his face darkened as he added, “In the meantime, I fear I may have to wield the usual Malfoy weapons against these imbeciles.”

“Charm, sex, and debauchery?”

“Corruption and intimidation,” Draco said, smiling diabolically.

Ginny didn't lose a parcel of the words exchanged between them. Blaise looked up and caught Lady Malfoy's golden eyes flashing with what looked like greed. He saw her turn to Shehzin and answer that she had attended Durmstrang, a school located in Bulgaria, proving that she had been listening to their conversation without ignoring his fiancee. Blaise then turned to Draco, who was eyeing his wife coolly. A small smile crept to his lips when Ginny began talking animatedly about Durmstrang.

“You see, everyone always thought that Durmstrang focused solely on the Dark Arts, and that its students were bound to become evil, power-seeking wizards. Which isn't to say that a number of them didn't, but I think that the leaders of the school willingly fostered these rumors to better dissimulate what we were actually being taught.”

“And that would be?” Blaise said. She flashed him a defiant smile.

“If I told you, it would defy the purpose, wouldn't it?”

“Ancient magic,” Draco said lazily. “They're trained since their first year to do wandless magic, preferably without any incantation, even if it's merely thought.”

“How does it work, then?” Shehzin asked.

“You analyze,” Ginny gave in to the other woman's curiosity, “and understand what you are going to do, or the object you're about to transform. Everything has a name; a name so old that it is the same, regardless of the area of the world you're in. You think the name, feel the name, and in a way you become the object. Then you can do with it whatever you please.”

Draco and Blaise listened intently.

“I was never very good at it, though. I suppose I learned too late,” she added, lost in her thoughts. “Transfiguration, Charms, Potions without a wand, they just never revealed their secrets to me. But people, now that was another matter.”

“Legilimency?” Draco asked, a calculating look on his face. She saw it.

“No, not people's thoughts. Their bodies, though; the cells and systems that we are made of, how they interact, merge, divide, I understood better. I quickly perceived human relations and hierarchies. That definitely helped me. You see, at Durmstrang you had to be tough without being violent. It was all about unspoken power. So, at first, of course, students tried to— er—evaluate me.”

An unhappy grimace twisted her features for a second.

“Luckily, my brothers had taught me a few particularly nasty hexes, and that kept people at bay. Things worked out better when I showed that, and though I could definitely inflict some damage, I was much better at mending it.”

“Ah, a potential Medi-witch?” Blaise asked.

Draco shot him a dark look. Malfoy women did not have a job.

“I guess that's the closest approximation there is,” Ginny acknowledged, “though as I said, my healing capacities were beyond—or below—the use of spells and potions. I also like to think that care helps a lot. Which is why—” She gave Draco a pointed look. “—I regularly visit the children of the MCCD.”

“With great success, might I add,” Draco said proudly. “Leo Lestrange went back to his family a few days ago, having demonstrated consistent mastery of his magical skills.”

Ginny snorted.

“Mark my words: with the family he has, he will be back in a few weeks, if not days.”

“Oh?” Draco raised an eyebrow teasingly. “Is it a bet?”

“It's a certitude,” she retorted, eyeing him levelly. A wicked smile lit her face as he kissed her hand, sealing their bet with skin contact.

“Were you happy at Durmstrang?” Shehzin asked unexpectedly.

Ginny turned wary eyes to the woman. Draco saw her long fingers wrap around her napkin and press it.

“Not always.”

“I suppose you missed your family?” Blaise asked innocently, keenly awaiting her reaction.

“They died,” Ginny said flatly. “It was—an accident.”

“I'm sorry,” Blaise said as Shehzin gasped compassionately.

Draco saw the crumpled napkin in her nervous hand, and for some reason he doubted that it had been a mere accident.

(1) From the Latin, “reperio” which means “to find”.

(2) Nabuchodonosor II was king of Babylon from 605 to 561 BC

(3) Brigadeiros are Brazilian treats made of sweetened condensed milk, butter and Nesquik. They are the most delicious, sugary, and fattening things ever invented by man.

(4) Dhaka is the capital of Bangladesh. You may rightfully assume that Shehzin is Bangladeshi.

-->

• Hesperides' Apple

• Chapter 9

Draco's mind bubbled with enthusiasm as Ginny, her eyes curious, finished fastening her robes. She had cancelled her visit to St. Mungo's at Draco's request, and was now busy hunting for a scarf and hat in the depths of her wardrobe . Apparently, they were going to an outdoor place where the temperature threatened to reach freezing point.

“Here, take these,” Draco said, charming a silver and green set of hat, scarf, and gloves out of his closet.

She thanked him. A swish of her wand turned the items plum and gold. Another one sent the scarf coiling around her neck and the gloves slipping onto her fingers.

“Why did you change the color?” Draco asked as he tucked his wife's long braids under the Gryffindor-colored hat.

“Silver and blonde don't match,” she said, knowing perfectly how peeved Draco would be by this comment.

“I beg to differ.”

Another scarf snaked into the room and found its place around Draco's neck. Ginny, grudgingly, had to admit that he looked stunning in silver and green. Then again, the more she came to know him, the more she understood he looked stunning in anything—and nothing. Gawking at his handsome features procured her quite a ravenous pleasure, which was usually enough to annoy her out of her wits, but the excitement he exuded that morning was communicative and she didn't find the strength to scold herself for giving in.

Draco gave the mirror a glance.

“I look fantastic,” he said calmly.

“Oh you do, you do!” the mirror giggled.

“I can't believe that even your furniture encourages you to remain a self-conceited prat,” Ginny said, throwing the piece of glass a disparaging glance.

“I can't believe that even my wife repeatedly assures me that the self-conceited prat is worthy of love, tenderness, and praise….“ Draco murmured in her ear.

“What makes you think you are?”

She moved away from him, tugging at one of her braids. Draco laughed. He was level with her in just two steps, in time to see her annoyed look tinted with the reluctance to admit that his statement was true. Then he took her into his arms. She buried her nose in the folds of his scarf, the scent of his cologne oddly reassuring. He kissed her soundly on the top of her head, then ushered her out of their room and down the stairs. When they arrived on their front porch, there was no carriage, which surprised Ginny.

Draco pulled out a folded handkerchief. When he unfurled it, they saw a little, golden key.

“What is it?” Ginny asked, though she could guess it was a Portkey.

Draco took her hand in his left, the right one holding the key on its cushion of white cloth, and placed their intertwined fingers on the key. They both felt as though a whirlwind, sweeping through their bodies, pulled them along and into space. A few seconds later, they were standing, dizzy from the voyage, in a very simply decorated room. The walls and floors were of fair wood, with sets of chairs and low tables. An enormous, round clock, hovering right below the ceiling, rotated slowly on its axis. Draco looked up.

“Five minutes to four. We're right in time.”

“Right in time for what?” Ginny asked aimlessly.

He looped her arm around his and guided her through the curtain of wooden beads that served as a door. They found themselves in a dark corridor. The air was noticeably cooler than the room they had just left, and Ginny suddenly felt the strong need to fasten her cloak. They quickly reached the end of the tunnel, at which point Draco pushed aside another curtain of beads. A glacial gust of wind slapped them in the face as they emerged onto the platform. Ginny gaped.

Row after row of seats unraveled before their eyes, looking like ditches carved on ice. On the stands, the swarming mass of wizards sat, talking and laughing,\ and huddling to fend off the cold. The increasingly small loops of seats dug deep into the surrounding glacier, and at their center stood a crystal-blue Quidditch pitch. The hoops, frozen white and blue, shot from the translucent ground like icicles. Around the stadium, which rose amidst gigantic silver stalagmites, mountains and frozen lakes topped with snow sprawled lazily. Ginny's eyes shone brightly, her mind filled with memories of the last Quidditch World Cup.

“I don't suppose you've ever seen anything quite like this,” Draco said self-sufficiently.

“Oh no, I saw the finals of the `94 World Cup',” Ginny blurted out. She could still picture in her mind the little tents Arthur Weasley and the boys had set up, the look on Harry's face when the Veela had danced, their exaltation as the whistle blew the beginning of the game….

“It was hosted by England,” Draco said flatly. Somehow he doubted that Ginevra's family had had enough money to finance a trip from Bulgaria to England, and her spontaneous response had surprised him. “I was there,” he added

“I kno—“ she began, but quickly amended. “I never actually was at a World Cup. We just—uh— watched it with some friends who had a giant Magic Mirror (1) at their house.”

Draco gave Ginny a sharp look, and she had the grace to blush, hoping he would attribute it to the cold. She snuggled against him.

“So, where are we?” she asked.

“The Logurinn Lake, in Iceland,” he said, tightening his arm around her.

“And who are the finalists? I really haven't been paying much attention to Quidditch lately….”

“That's because you were minding other, more important things. Namely, me,” Draco commented seriously. She laughed. As it so often did, her chuckle made him want to have her laughing forever; something in those moments was so perfect that it threatened to make Draco actually feel happy.

Happy… Perish the thought, Draco thought, with less gloom than he hoped for.

“England versus New Zealand. This should be interesting,” he said, clearly a connoisseur.

“Ah, Lord Malfoy, here you are!”

Ginny wished she could bury herself in the ground as the current Minister of Magic, Padma Patil, made her way toward them. She was leaning on the arm of a curly-haired and bespectacled young man, whose resemblance to Penelope Clearwater identified him as her brother.

“Minister,” Draco greeted her cordially. “Mister Clearwater, I do not think we have ever met, but I am glad to finally make your acquaintance.”

“Pleasure's all mine,” Telemachus Clearwater said as he eagerly took hold of Draco's hand. “And you must be Lady Malfoy,” he continued, turning to Ginny.

What gave it away? she almost asked. As perceptive as dear Penelope, aren't you…? For the first time ever, she thought back to Penelope's relation with Percy and wondered whether it had continued after Hogwarts. Had she, too, suffered from the news of his death?

“Why, yes, as of recently,” Ginny said. “I'm delighted to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Padma Patil said, vigorously shaking Ginny's hand. She had grown into a beautiful, albeit stern-looking woman, sharp intelligence and determination evident in her every movement. “Lord and Lady Malfoy, this is Thorgal Aegirson (2), the Prime Minister of Iceland. He and the Department of Wizarding Sports are responsible for this event, and I have to admit they did such a wonderful job that we might just have to hold every World Cup here in Iceland.”

“Now, now, Minister Patil, don't flatter my husband too much or he'll take your word for it!” a witch with round cheeks and a luminous blonde mane for hair scolded Padma Patil.

“This is Aaricia, head of the Department of Wizarding Sports, and, coincidentally, my wife,” Thorgal Aegirson introduced her.

They exchanged handshakes and greetings, then Aaricia Aegirson invited them all to take a seat. Directing her wand to her throat, she said, “Sonorus.” Excitement flared inside Draco. These were the moments he appreciated most, moments where he sat on top of the world, about to watch a game which experts expected to be great, next to a woman he actually felt something for.

“Witches and wizards, welcome to the hundred and thirty first Quidditch World Cup!”

A roar and thunderous clapping rose from the crowd.

“As head of Iceland's Department of Wizarding Sports,” Aaricia Aegirson continued, “it is my pleasure to see you all so eager to witness what promises to be a phenomenal game between our two finalists.” Shouts of “Kill the kiwis,” were heard. “This event was made possible by the cooperation between many wizarding countries. People from all different nationalities and cultures have worked together to bring the World Cup to you. I would particularly like to thank Great Britain's Minister of Magic, Padma Patil, and New Zealand's President of Magic Society, Haka Takurua, whose efforts to ease the tensions between our finalists' supporters were noteworthy. Also, Iceland's Prime Minister, Thorgal Aegirson, and British citizen, Draco Malfoy, may be thanked for their extensive support, both moral and financial. Without them we would not be here on this brutally cold afternoon, on our way to enjoy a fantastic evening of sport in the midst of such a breath-taking setting.”

Draco acknowledged Aaricia's thanks with a nod and waved lazily to the crowd as Thorgal, his strong and heavy features dark from uneasiness, gave people a tentative smile and awkward hand gesture. Ginny liked the air of raw strength that he displayed; she supposed he had not been elected for his charisma, but for the fact that he kept his promises.

“And now, please put your hands together for, England!”

Like seven speeding bullets, the British team sprang from the ground amidst the erupting cheers of the crowd. A delighted grin appeared on Ginny's face. Next to her, Draco, who was enjoying himself without being so obvious about it, was pleased to see her smile.

“Galvin Gudgeon, Aladair Maddock, Joselind Wadcock, Catriona McCormack, Mark Coll, David Joddart, and Oliver Wood,” Aaricia Aegirson, increasingly excited, roared.

“Ladies and gentleman, please welcome,” she continued when the seven players were on the field, “New Zealand! With Marlo Moutohora, Lobo Vahina, Alec Korki, Abonaso Tchipangi, Eric Polobi, Tsinapa Bulboasa, and Rebo Aramapo.”

The New Zealand players, bulkier than their counterparts, wore black outfits and had warrior smudges on their cheeks and foreheads. It was all Ginny could do to prevent herself from squealing; when their parents allowed them to go see Quidditch games on their neighbors' Magic Mirror, she cheered without fail for the impressive and beastly All Blacks (3). Her brothers, finding her uncivilized, would then tickle her until she fell off the couch into a puddle of limbs.

“And now, if each team's mascot will please make its way to the field….”

A shot of gold burst from the center of the field, and in its wake materialized a beautiful woman, her hair like woven gold. Though the brightest sunlight shrouded her, it was easy to see her extremely delicate features, of which the most exquisite were her long, white hands. “Isolde,” ran an awed murmur through the crowd. “Isolde aux Blanches Mains.” She wrapped said hand around a strand of hair, then blew on the pale curl nested in her hands. Swirls of gold so shiny it looked white descended from her hand into the crowd. The frenzied public failed to notice her calm disappearance. Draco eyed the crowd disdainfully.

“Do you see how they crawl for gold?” he said.

“Some people could do with a few Sickles, let alone Galleons!” Ginny retorted, remembering all too well how her brothers and herself had scrambled around to catch the coins.

“But it's just like Leprechaun gold,” Draco said. “It'll have vanished in a few hours. They really are dumb.”

“Or merely ignorant,” she countered softly. “And in need.”

Draco radiated scorn nonetheless, and that exasperated her; she avoided further discussion. Meanwhile, down in the pitch, the New Zealand team had dismounted from their brooms and stood in a line. When the leprechauns had burst into a cloud of four-leaved clovers, there came a rhythmic growl from the pitch. The spectators looked down to see the All Blacks, their fierce faces masks of anger, hitting their arms and thighs with powerful claps, half-standing, half-crouching, as if they were about to prance on their prey. Ginny, having forgotten her annoyance toward Draco, gripped his hand excitedly and leaned forward to better admire the gladiator-like players.

After the All Blacks had mounted their brooms again and soared into the sky, the strident whistle cried. The game began. The tension mounted rapidly, only equaled by the volume of supporters' screams and encouragement. The Quaffle leapt from player to player, England in the lead, cross Bludgers attempting to behead members of both teams. The All Blacks played aggressively, but England's defense was rather impenetrable. The game quickly reached an intense status-quo, with barely any goal scored but extremely professional play from both teams.

An hour later, the players still chased and ducked, swerved and dived unfailingly. Three times, a golden lightning sent the Seekers racing through the air, but to no avail. England was still up by thirty points when a nastily directed Bludger collided with one of its players' shoulder.

“And Wood takes the blow like a man!” Aaricia commented with verve. “That's a penalty for England right there! Maddock takes it and… Oh no! He misses.”

Ginny slumped back in her seat.

“It's okay. He's fine,” she told herself. “We're still winning.”

Next to her, Draco smirked; she really was taking this at heart. What a relief that was when so many of his girlfriends had regarded Quidditch like the threat of a mistress! But as her words sank in, he wondered who she had been talking about. Was it Wood? He was, after all, the only one who could possibly not have been fine.

Wood, in fact, repeatedly rubbed his shoulder, and any attempt to rotate it made him grimace. But the game went on regardless, with the All Blacks scoring two powerful goals against the somewhat incapacitated Keeper. Ginny was haggard, pulling on her gloves and twisting her scarf feverishly. A third goal—making things even for both teams—propelled her to the edge of her seat, where she remained thereafter. Draco, meanwhile, wondered how much England's loss would cost him.

Great Britain, through a series of rapid passes, brought the Quaffle by New Zealand's posts, only to be shooed away by two menacing Beaters with full command of the Bludgers. Quickly, the Quaffle whizzed to the opposite end of the field, and a titan of a Chaser hurled it toward Wood's hoops. Wood's hand stood in firm opposition, but the Quaffle slammed into it with such violence that his arm was pushed back and his shoulder dislocated with a sharp crack. Ginny turned as green as Wood when it happened.

One of the All Blacks chose that moment to direct a particularly nasty Quaffle toward the British Seeker, and the Referee failed to pause the game. The Seeker barely avoided the Quaffle.

“Gudgeon efficiently steers away from that Quaffle. That was a close call!” Aaricia commented from the box. “But… Moutohora is sprinting toward his own goal… Could he have—? Yes, take a look ladies and gentleman, right in front of him, this little shot of gold…”

The British Seeker's head snapped toward his adversary's goal as he rushed for it. Moutohra was far ahead, however, flat on his broom, looking like a massive buzzard trying to catch a canary. His heavy hand closed around the Snitch just as Gudgeon reached the tail of his broom.

“One hundred and fifty points to New Zealand!” cried Aaricia. “The game is over! Three hundred and sixty to two hundred and ten. The All Blacks are the new World Champions!”

Thorgal Aegirson jumped out of his seat, clapping eagerly, a radiant smile illuminating his coarse features. Draco, highly satisfied by the game despite its outcome, turned to Ginny, expecting to find her downcast. She was still bent forward, eyeing the forlorn British players who now congregated around their Keeper. Mediwizards rushed on the field. Her compassion for the injured player—he recalled he had been at Hogwarts around the same time as himself—upset him.

“It was a good game,” Draco said, claiming his wife's attention. She turned to him wearily.

“Huh? Oh yes, it was. It's too bad we lost,” she added. Deception seeped into her, but Draco preferred it to her earlier concern for Wood. “I hope Ol—Wood isn't too severely injured.”

Her comment made him frown. Why did she care? After all, he was a professional Quidditch player; it was part of the risks of the game. He stiffly helped her get up. Padma Patil and Telemachus Clearwater walked over to the Malfoys, Minister Patil distractedly dabbing the corner of her eyes with her purple scarf.

“This is too horrible,” she said dramatically. Clearwater looked like he couldn't agree more, but his male respectability intimated that he should not lose decorum. “And poor Wood… Do you remember he was at Hogwarts a few years above us?” she asked, turning to Draco.

What do women have for this blasted Keeper? he wondered, increasingly put out. He still had fresh in his mind the look of distress on his wife's face and decided no one should cause her such sorrow, save for himself should he find it fit.

“I remember,” Draco said as politely as he could.

At his side, Ginny was still looking toward the pitch. He decided he could either have her worry, or demonstrate the extent of his connections by taking her to the locker-rooms. Of course, that would require Minister Patil's approval.

“Say, Padma,” he said rather familiarly, his voice low and pleasant, “how about we go and offer Wood our condolences in person? Maybe a visit from his Prime Minister will cheer him up.”

“That's an excellent idea,” she said. “Let's go. Thorgal, Aaricia, I'll see you tonight for the award ceremony?”

The Aegirsons nodded, and they all made their separate ways. Minister Patil led the way down flights of stairs and rather dark corridors. Though the wooden stands weren't particularly pleasant, they had the advantage of retaining some warmth into the different rooms they walked through. At last, they reached the ground floor and were faced with two doors. The one surmounted by England's banner was open, and from it, rose clouds of steam. Padma Patil hesitated at the entrance, unsure whether she could just walk into their locker room. At that moment, an energetic man walked out. He nearly bumped into Padma but stopped himself in time, only to stare at her, his bushy eyebrows raised and mouth open in surprise.

“Minister!” he exclaimed. A sudden light brightened his fatigued features.

“Ah, Mister Lark,” she said immediately. “We were coming to congratulate you and your players for such a brilliantly executed game.”

Mr. Lark looked like nothing could have made his day happier—except, perhaps, winning the World Cup. He seized Padma's hands.

“Why, certainly, Minister, it would be my honor, our honor…” He turned to the others. “Why, Lord Malfoy! What a pleasant surprise! And you must be Lady Malfoy; it truly is a pleasure to meet you,” he continued, unstoppable, distributing handshakes around. “My boys are going to be so proud that you're here. Please, please come in.”

He pushed open the door and let his guests walk through. A hot flash washed over them, the air white and moist. The wooden floors were heated, and four benches formed a large square. Three players were in the changing room, toweling their hair dry.

“Boys!” Lark called. “There's someone here to see you.”

They turned, their faces guarded. Upon recognizing their Prime Minister, however, they managed to summon forth smiles. Padma Patil, at ease, immediately began congratulating them. Draco, who had been surprised at the election of such a young witch as Prime Minister, at last understood the people's choice. Her comments were succinct and exact; her condolences, solemn; her encouragements conveyed hope. Everything about her breathed intelligence and professionalism. A burly player walked into the room. He quickly knotted the towel around his waist upon seeing they had visitors.

“Wood!” the Minister of Magic said.

“Pat—I mean, Minister,” he corrected himself, giving her a winsome smile. Clearwater looked like he would have preferred to see Wood permanently damaged.

“Congratulations, Wood, you made some pretty impressive saves,” Draco said amiably enough. The Keeper looked up into Draco's unsmiling face and didn't seem too pleased with the comment. Regardless, he shook his hand. A man of Malfoy's status was not to be ignored.

“The mediwizards did a good job with your shoulder,” came a voice from behind Draco. He moved aside and Ginny smiled to Wood. “We would have been sorry to learn it was serious.”

Confusion and surprise flashed through Wood's eyes. He had seen that smile on two identical faces for four years. There was no mistaking it, and yet, seeing it swiftly replaced by a look of barely restrained fear made him wonder.

“This is my wife,” Draco introduced dryly. He couldn't help but dislike the searching look the Keeper was giving Ginevra.

“I'm delighted to meet you,” Ginny said, extending her hand with a shaky smile.

Wood pressed it to his lips as his eyes bore into hers. She looked down. He was only too aware of the fact that she hadn't given him her name. More players trickled into the room. One of them, stark naked, hurried back into the showering room to grab a towel. This made them all laugh, and the mood was light enough despite the loss of the World Cup. Padma Patil gave all the men solid handshakes. It was difficult to tell, however, which words, the Minister's or Draco Malfoy's, pleased them the most. The Lord Malfoy was not one to be trifled with, yet his encouragements were worth more than gold. He could easily become their team's next sponsor… Lark understood that and was torn between political and financial interests.

Ginny met the players along with Draco and was very enthusiastic in her praise. Her excitement was contagious; more than one laugh could be heard where Lady Malfoy was. She tactfully avoided Oliver Wood during the time they spent in the locker room, and that was not lost on a rather jealous Draco Malfoy. At last, they emerged from the changing rooms, their skin bright from the steam. Ginny's cheeks were flushed, giving her a peculiar glow. Draco, sullen, bid Patil and Clearwater a quick farewell.

“I'm glad to have met you,” Padma Patil told Ginny.

“Likewise,” she retorted, addressing herself to Clearwater as well.

“You should come over for dinner sometime,” he suggested. “My family would be delighted to spend some time in such enchanting company,”

The Malfoys nodded and smiled politely, but both knew they wouldn't be honoring that invitation unless it was strictly necessary.

And “meet” Penelope so that she, just like Oliver, can notice that I have the Weasley smile? I'd rather not. It was close enough this time....

Draco wrapped his arm protectively around Ginny, as if claiming credit for her thoughtful silence and sudden burst of fear. He touched the key in his pocket and, when the Portkey worked its magic, they vanished. Oliver Wood, leaning against the door of the locker rooms, tried to imagine what his old Hogwarts Quidditch team's Beaters' younger sister would have looked like as a woman.

***

Ginny sits on the floor of her room at Durmstrang. As a sixth year, she is entitled to have her own room, which has often been of a great relief. Her belongings lay strewn around her;, the books shredded, the sheets torn to pieces, her potted plants lying in piles of dirt and spilt water. Ginny doesn't bother to clean everything pu; in the course of the past few days, it has come to happen so many times that she lost count. The moment she begins to think of her family, an unbearable pain grips her, and she falls to the floor, tears furrowing her skin. The floor, the ground, closer to the warmth of an earth her family had taught her to love… She cries and cries, until she's shaking with dry sobs; until she starts thinking of the culprit. The first day, thoughts of Death Eaters were the ones that sent her books crashing across the room.

Since she saw Hermione, however, a new, lonely figure causes her sheets to curl furiously and form undulating snakes around her. It is the first time she has managed such powerful, wandless magic, but she couldn't care less. Her music box explodes against the mirror on her door. The melody of a lullaby rises from the broken ceramic and metal. Ginny shuts her mind against it ferociously—Merlin, how many times Mum sang that one to us!—and with a faint noise, the music box's mechanics collapse entirely.

Draco Malfoy… I should have known. And yet, the Ministry took him under his protection. We were all fools! A wave of cold fury bubbles in her throat. How could they ever trust him? Him, of all people, just because Harry said he wouldn't kill Dumbledore. The desire to blame Harry nags her, but it would be too much like blaming one of her own brothers for the Weasleys' death, regardless of what has happened between them the night of Bill and Fleur's wedding. Malfoy, Malfoy, Malfoy, she tells herself, and as she repeats the name, it swells with poison. The flasks containing her Potions homework burst into an ephemeral star of glass.

Ginny feels herself becoming increasingly empty, as she often does when she's cried herself to exhaustion. But this time, Hermione's suggestion kindles a fire in her sorrow. If she found a way, any way, to hurt Malfoy as he had hurt her, it wouldn't bring her family back, but it would perhaps give her existence a new meaning. If she could… But how?

“Wherever it aches the most,” Hermione said. Prestige… Money… Image… “Those can be toyed with,” Hermione assured her, “and if you want to, we'll find a way. But I can't do this alone.”

Alone, all alone, and who was there to blame? Malfoy. Malfoy, Malfoy, Malfoy, always MALFOY! With a loud crack, the wooden frame of her bed breaks like a match. The windows tremble. Ginny has made her decision. Tomorrow she can start classes again, graduate by the time May rolls by, and then be off; she knows what she's going to do now....

(1) “Mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the fairest of them all?” The concept of the Magic Mirror is not, unfortunately, my own. We have the Grimm Brothers to thank for this, and perhaps story tellers more ancient than them.

(2) Likewise, Thorgal Aegirson is not mine! (I wish) He is the eponymous hero of a French comic, imagined by Van Hamme and brilliantly illustrated by Rosinski. His wife Aaricia, darling of a Viking princess, bears him two children.

(3) The All Blacks is actually New Zealand's rugby team. They are, indeed, frightful looking and perform the most intimidating dance before every game. I love it!

-->

• Hesperides' Apple

• Chapter 10-Preparing Halloween

October, 1998

Autumn was brought by chilly winds, and with it came frequent rains and leaves like red flowers. The Malfoy domain, shrouded in vivid copper and gold, appeared carved out of many rubies. Ginny spent an increasing amount of time in the forest, from which she would come back in the evening, smelling like humid bark and pebbles. Draco liked the way her skin felt after those excursions, cool like the outside air, pulsing with the life that was progressively seeping out of the trees and into the soil. Convinced at last by Narcissa, Ginny had abandoned her caring of the outside garden, leaving the elves to tend the plants under the drizzly rain.

When Draco, having spent the morning at work, returned home at noon, he found his wife and mother deep in conversation. Around them, the greenhouse's glass walls rose like walls of ice, and every parcel of space was occupied by leaves, flowers, and viridian tentacles. The rich smell of tropical flowers wafted everywhere, diluted by water's scent.

“—unlike orchids, cannot be bred by—“ Narcissa was saying.

“Hello, Mother, Ginevra,” he interrupted them.

“Good afternoon, dear,” Narcissa said fondly. Ginny had the feeling she was growing increasingly tender toward her son, and even her daughter-in-law, as if they gave her solace from her solitude. “I suppose you're here to take Ginevra to the MCCD?”

“The MC—“ Ginny began, uncomprehending. “Oh no, I forgot! Draco, I'm sorry.” She lifted uncertain eyes to him. His face betrayed no emotion, and he knew she hated that, but this incertitude of hers had to be maintained in order for him to keep the upper hand in their relationship. He really didn't care that she was late. “I'll be ready in a few seconds.”

Ginny got up, taking her gardening gloves off. As she walked past Draco, his hand snaked around her waist, and he pulled her to him. His gray eyes as expressionless as molten steel, he peered into her honey-colored eyes, delighting in the chaos that coursed there. She tried to pull away. He dipped his head lower until their foreheads met, and her eyes widened. Then, smirking at last, he softly wiped a smudge of dirt off her nose. Her face broke into a relieved grin, and she hurried away.

“You're falling for her,” Narcissa said neutrally, clipping the brown tip of an orchid's leaf.

“She's my wife. Whether or not I `fall for her', like you put it, is irrelevant.”

“Not quite. It merely proves that it was a good idea to call on Hesperides' Apple to send you a suitable bride. And apparently, she's more than suitable. I haven't seen you looking at a girl like that since you were six and—“

“And Father had to explain to me I couldn't marry Magdalene Rosi because she was a Mudblood. Yes, Mother, I remember.”

“You know, since the new Laws of Blood Purity were issued, I've come to question the whole concept more and more.”

Draco gave her a startled look.

“Yes, I know,” she countered his mute objection. “But it's undeniable that the Wizarding World isn't doing as well as it used to before—“

“It hasn't even been a year,” Draco explained patiently. “And before that, there was Voldemort.” Her face blanched at the mention of the name. “Periods of chaos can only be dealt with strict laws. You know this, Mother. How else would the Black and Malfoy lines have endured? We had become too large a community. Dilution of power and resources were leading to the vulgarization of magic. We had to control those, somehow, if only to reestablish some order. Blood purity was just something most ancient families agreed to; it was providential.”

“But we are dying out. And weakening! You know how many Squib children are born these days—“

“I've got my idea about that,” he said as footsteps were heard down the stairs, “thanks to Ginevra, in fact. But think about it this way, if you will: you prune your trees; we just pruned society.”

Narcissa gave her son a dark look. He grinned and kissed her on the cheek.

“I'm ready,” Ginny said.

She wore yellow robes, so dark they could have been orange. They flared at the elbows and were tied below the breast by a string of ivy. Her hair was rolled in a bun by another branch of ivy, and from her ears hung two pumpkins the color of her dress.

“Oh, pumpkin, you shouldn't have,” Draco said snidely.

“It's not for you,” she hissed. “The children will be celebrating Halloween, as they call it, and you're lucky I'm not asking you to dress up as a frog.” He looked about to retort something. “Not that it would change much. Narcissa, I don't think we'll be back for dinner, so have a nice evening.”

She dragged Draco out of the room. He looked back, and Narcissa placed her hands on an imaginary round belly, giving him a questioning glance. When they climbed in the carriage, Draco looked subtly at his wife, but soon realized that the illusion of a pregnancy was caused by the empire-cut of her robes. He berated himself for thinking otherwise, having seen her perform the contraception spell a good dozen times since their wedding-night.

“Do you know what frogs do to pumpkins?” Draco asked Ginny in a low, menacing voice.

“They hop around them?” she offered.

“No,” he said, his mouth getting dangerously close to her neck. “They eat them.”

He bit softly into the dense flesh of her neck, running his teeth down her jugular vein. Goosebumps spiked her warm skin. She tilted her head to the side, eyes closed, her lips parted, giving him full access to her throat and loving it. As his kisses roughened and threatened to leave bruises, she pulled his head toward her face and murmured, “We don't want the kids thinking that the pumpkin has been attacked by bugs, do we?”

“Not bugs, frogs,” he replied, about to continue his downward exploration.

Ginny laughed, but she firmly kept his head away from her neckline. He settled for her lips instead, manipulating her so that she ended up flat on the carriage seat with Draco on top of her. She had one foot on his coccyx, and was about to use the second one to pull him down, when the carriage stopped.

“Next time I finance a project, I will make sure it is within reasonable distance of Malfoy Manor,” Draco groaned.

Ginny flattened her hands against his chest longingly. I'm only getting rid of the wrinkles, she uncertainly convinced herself. She sat up, made sure her hair and dress were in place, then stepped out of the carriage, charming along a series of enormous floating pumpkins. Draco, who hadn't seen them atop their vehicle, sighed resignedly. They headed directly for the back of the MCCD, where a dark forest of brambles had been grown for the occasion. Ginny looked mildly deflated by the sight of Romilda Nott and Vivian Silverspring.

“I invited Shehzin,” Draco murmured into her ear, “but she's still in Dhaka, trying to convince her family that Blaise is good for her.”

Ginny looked forlorn.

“You can come with me, if you want; I have to talk to Angela.”

The look on Ginny's face convinced him that she would rather endure the other two gossips than Lucius Malfoy's ex-mistress. Draco planted a firm kiss on her mouth and vanished into the MCCD. The large marble corridors shone with the startlingly clear light so typical of fall and winter. He found Bjork in her office, clad in immaculate white robes.

“Hello, Angela,” he called from the waiting room.

“Mister Malfoy, do come in,” she answered. “It's been a while.”

“I was busy,” he said flatly.

“With that charming wife of yours? She's been spending quite some time here,” she added conspiratorially.

“I know. And apparently her healing methods are working better than yours. Care to explain?”

Angela Bjork looked noticeably uncomfortable. She uncrossed her legs and placed glasses on her nose. Draco stared at her unwaveringly. She pulled out a thick folder.

“Here are the files of our patients. Mrs. Malfoy has been caring particularly for a certain number of pupils, such as Lorelei Prewett, Eve Hopkins, and Elias Carlysle. Though it is true that these children are doing particularly well, the results are by no means permanent.”

Draco's raised eyebrow encouraged her to continue.

“We recently welcomed Leo Lestrange back into our midst,” Bjork said proudly.

She was right, Draco thought, remembering their bet. He fought hard not to smile.

“I fail to perceive why this should make you happy,” Draco said coldly. “How are the other children doing? Those that my wife does not take care of.”

“They're improving,” Bjork said earnestly, “but not enough. Their spurts of magic are extremely erratic, often triggered by life-endangering situations.”

That had been part of Lucius Malfoy's theory. Forcing the magic out of its envelope, as he used to say. Draco remembered Ginny's horror when he had implied that the children weren't being well fed to spur their anger and, possibly, magical skills. The words “life-endangering situations”, however, rang strangely off-key to his ear. He was not long to make a decision.

“Angela, I would like you to stop these life-endangering situations. Pick a few children at random, enough to obtain convincing statistical data from, and tell the nurses to be particularly caring with them. If you run out of ideas, ask Ginevra. Base your treatment of these sample-children on the way she handles her proteges, then get back to me with the results.”

Angela Bjork, used to the Malfoy's concise orders, nodded.

Meanwhile, faced with the inappropriateness of running away, Ginny had accosted Romilda and Vivian. The two women were charming pumpkins and scare-crows to come alive, then dispatching them toward different areas of the maze.

“Ginevra,” Romilda said when she saw her, “I just adore your dress. And those earrings are absolutely delicious!”

“Yes, well, I thought I'd wear radishes first, but I figured pumpkins were more adequate,” Ginny said innocently, remembering all too well how Romilda had made fun of Luna Lovegood ever since her arrival at Hogwarts.

“Radishes? That certainly would have looked silly,” a rich, silky voice commented.

They turned to see Blaise Zabini and Serafina at his arm. The witch eyed Ginny disparagingly, giving a particularly distasteful glance to her earrings.

“Vivian, Romilda,” Blaise acknowledged the witches. “Ginevra, as usual, classiness and appropriateness incarnated. Where is your husband, love?”

Serafina, clearly surprised by her brother's familiarity with Lady Malfoy, gave him a dark look. Ginny pointed to the main building of the MCCD. Blaise, after a quick peck on Serafina's cheek, was gone in a heartbeat. The young woman turned to Romilda.

“So, how can I help?”

Romilda, surprised to hear Serafina offering to help, was speechless. Vivian, on the other hand, went right to the point, having understood that the Zabinis' daughter would not have people knowing how much more generous and helpful Ginevra was when compared to her.

“Since when do you help, Serafina?”

“Since the job needs to be done, and well done,” Serafina retorted, flashing Vivian a feline smile.

“In that case, perhaps you should ask Ginevra. She's here more often, this celebration was her idea, and we've been following her suggestions.”

Serafina turned to Ginny expectantly, without deigning to ask for her expertise, however.

“The afternoon is going to be dedicated to the children,” Ginny explained mechanically. “They'll go through the maze, meeting different creatures, and will have to accomplish a number of custom-made tasks. Hopefully, the excitement of the game will encourage them to use magic. If not, it's still an enriching experience—they'll get to use their mind, creativity, capacity to dream, and so forth.”

“Where do we come into play?” Serafina asked.

“That's up to you. Some of us will be tailing the kids so as to make sure they're fine; others will prepare the reward.”

“Which is?”

“You know, I really wish you had gotten into this earlier, that way we wouldn't be wasting our time trying to explain this to you,” Vivian said rather sharply. Serafina glared at her.

“Now, now, no need to get into a fight,” Romilda interrupted. “Vivian, come with me, we'll go tell the fairies what they have to do. Serafina, Ginevra, see you in a bit.” She dragged Vivian away.

“Halloween is just a modern variation of the ancient Celtic celebration of Samhain,” Ginevra explained to an impatient looking Serafina. “That night, the souls of the departed were thought to roam the Earth, and Muggles would extinguish their fires and try to appear as ugly as possible so as not to attract the ghosts' concupiscence. As wizards, however—“

“We welcome the spirits. Yes, I remember. Why would the children care?”

“Power,” Ginny snapped, annoyed at the other woman's defiance and interruptions. “The ghosts and spirits of the departed are a source of power, though not acknowledged by many families today. That's the reward. Maybe it will help the children get a feel for what raw magical power is like.”

“I never celebrated Samhain or Halloween,” Serafina said snidely.

“I wouldn't have expected you to,” Ginny said. “It's also a time to mourn your dead,” she added somberly. “At least, in that regard, you are lucky to have been spared. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some things to take care of. Why don't you go find Romilda and Vivian and finish preparing the maze? I'll get the kids and explain everything to them.”

Without waiting for an answer, Ginny wheeled around and made her way toward the building. Serafina, her dark eyes filled with resentment, wondered to which extent her beloved's wife had not been spared the casualties which her own family had avoided. Without a second's hesitation, she followed Ginevra into the children's quarters.

Blaise had caught up with Draco in the lobby, and they had embraced amidst the pompous luminosity of marbles and mirrors.

“I need to talk to you,” were Blaise's first, rather urgent words after his greetings.

Draco did not need to be told twice. He was used to his friends' plots and secrets, and knew better than to discuss those in such a public setting. He directed Blaise to what appeared to be a classroom. Rows of desks and chairs faced a long blackboard, and there were books in every corner. Draco leaned casually on the teacher's desk while Blaise took a seat on one of the students' tables.

“Good enough?” Draco asked.

“It will do,” Blaise said. “I have a favor to ask from you.”

Draco's eyes narrowed. Favors were infrequent amongst wizards, as they entailed a debt not easy to erase. Blaise asking for a favor rather than help meant that he wanted something very, very desperately. He nodded.

“Shehzin is being held hostage by her family in Dhaka. They evidently do not want her to marry someone who isn't of her clan, much less of another country. I would try to go there and get her myself, but I don't want to expose her to further danger. You are influential enough to convince them that I am worthy of their expectations, or exert pressure until they give her up if need be. Do this for me, Draco, and I will be in your debt.”

“Wizard's debt?” Draco asked, testing and warning his friend.

“Wizard's debt,” Blaise repeated. His gaze didn't flinch.

“Agreed,” Draco said. There was a flash of black light during which were revealed other's bones, muscles, veins all drenched with magic. Then everything was back to normal. “Give me a few days and she will be yours.”

Blaise didn't thank his friend. He knew he would have to pay him back, and he had a faint idea on how, exactly, he would do that.

“On a completely different topic, but just as important,” Blaise began. Draco looked at him questioningly. “I don't want to alarm you with women's gossip or insult your wi—“

“What about her?” Draco snapped, eyeing Blaise fiercely.

“You know how she attends all those events, tea parties, charity luncheons, and expositions with Pansy, Vivian, Cecilia—“

“Yes. So?”

“Well, Serafina is usually there as well. And she—“ He hesitated “—she says that Ginevra has been, uh—“

“Get on with it,” Draco growled.

“Implying things. About you.”

“What sorts of things?”

“Oh, you know, all sorts of things.” Draco glared at him. “Negative things. Like the fact that it's weird that Lucius would die so soon after the end of the war. That it suited you rather well, what with the inherited money, title, and all. Or the fact that you were involved with those Ministers, the ones who got in trouble for—“

“Rosier, Gamp, and Burke?” Draco remembered from one of his discussions with Ginevra.

“Yes, those are the ones. Now, you know me, and you know Serafina; I wasn't too keen on paying attention to her words. But the thing is that, ever since, I've been paying attention to what she says and does. She gets along with everyone. She doesn't take much place in conversations, but her remarks are always pertinent and often veiled. Do you talk to her about your work?”

“A little bit,” Draco conceded, “but I doubt she follows much. It's rather complex.”

“Well, next time you have that kind of discussion with her, or in front of her, watch her. At the dinner where I introduced Shehzin, she was listening to our conversation. Trust me, she understood perfectly well what we were saying. And it isn't the first time, either. Because you won't let her alone for a second during business dinners—“

“I don't like it when my partners try to chat her up,” Draco said coldly.

“Exactly. That's why she's always with you, and she can hear everything that's said. Now, tell me, since when have your affairs not been doing so well?”

“Ginevra has nothing to do with my affairs,” Draco said, his voice menacing.

“Look, I know you don't want to hear this, but maybe you're too—“

“Infatuated? Blind? Careless?” Draco chuckled mirthlessly, then continued, “I've seen those looks. I have seen her angry and scared for apparently no reason. She nearly went berserk when Wood got hurt; almost called him Oliver, in fact. Oh, and I intercepted one of her letters to someone I do not know.”

Blaise eyed his friend uncertainly. Draco's voice was now sharp and cold, his features particularly emotionless, but his eyes predatory.

“She's used Contraceptio more times than I can count, without ever, ever broaching the topic,” Draco continued. Use of the contraception spell was a touchy subject in the British wizarding world; it was a decision for couples to make, and usually frowned upon when one chose to cast it without informing the other. So Blaise frowned. “I don't know what she's doing, but I can tell she's up to something. Ginevra is a subtle and intelligent person, but she hasn't been a Slytherin for six years. I just need to find out—“He paused, gave Blaise a sharp glance, and understanding what his friend expected from him, complied. “Wizard's debt. I will help free Shehzin, but you must figure out what my wife is plotting. Whether it is against me, my family, or nothing at all, I want to know.”

“And then?” Blaise added, non-commitally.

Draco smirked and shook his head.

“And then, nothing. She's my wife.”

“You like her,” Blaise said.

“Yes, that is usually preferable when one gets married to a woman.”

Blaise looked at Draco, leaning against the desk, the perfect image of nobility and composure. He prayed to no one in particular that he may find Ginevra innocent. As it was, Lord Malfoy appeared to care for her too much to let her go, and enough that he would make her pay dearly for her warranting such an affection. Blaise shuddered. Draco nonchalantly clapped him in the back, and they made their way back to the garden.

Ginny had reached the room where the children were having a hard time studying. News of the celebration and feast had reached their alert ears, though their ignorance concerning the tradition prevented them from knowing what to expect. Angela Bjork had been complaining all week long, however, so the children knew Ginny was partly responsible and were all the more eager to discover what was in store for them. Some parents had agreed to come while others, uninterested, had contented themselves with authorizing their children to participate.

When Ginny walked into the large solarium in which the MCCD's pupils worked, a buzzing murmur spread like fire. She smiled brightly at them, the pumpkins dangling from her ears as she accessed the center platform. A swish of her wand magnified her voice.

“Hello, everyone,” she began. The children were silent, having been trained early to listen quietly to adults or expect a thrashing. “Drop your quills and gather around; I have a story to tell you. As you have no doubt heard, we're having a celebration tonight. Some know it as Halloween, but wizards who firmly believe in this night's power refer to it as Samhain.”

“When the dead people come out!” peeped a young boy.

“Indeed. When the souls of the dead are free to roam the earth from midnight `til dawn. Now, tell me, and tell me honestly, who here is afraid of death?”

A few children raised their hands, but the others remained stone-faced. Their families had been depleted by the war, and they had learned to withstand loss stoically. Some of their parents daily threatened them of torture and death, though they knew better than to take them seriously—about death, that is.

“Death is harder to bear for those who live than for those who experience it. For the latter it is a transition from our world to another, or perhaps from our world to nothing, but for the former, it entails the absence of a loved one. Often, losing someone is so hard to bear because you wish you had had more time to tell them how much you cared for them, how proud you were of their achievements, how lucky you were to have grown up with them. Wizards, unlike most Muggles, understand this, and that is why fears of Samhain have long been banished. Those who are scared, tonight will, of course, have a choice to remain by the fires—it is a secret to no one that death fears light—but I strongly encourage you to stand by the pentacles and watch.”

“Watch what?” a raven-haired girl asked.

“Watch as we summon the ghosts and ask them to give us some of their power.”

Their eyes were huge with hope and envy. Power was a word they understood, a word that meant a lot, if not everything, to their family, but something that they cruelly lacked.

“Before all of this, however, we are going to have… a treasure hunt!”

Sparkles danced in the pupils' eyes, though they did not give in to excitement by laughing or clapping. Ginny remembered her and her brothers' enthusiasm whenever such an event was proposed; they would run around, squealing and pushing each other, thrilled beyond measure at the idea of having a treasure hunt. Such comportments were clearly not encouraged in aristocratic or norm-conforming pure-blood families.

“One hour before sunset, you will get to enter the maze. You will have your wands, of course.“ The children appeared mildly deflated, understanding that this was just another trick. “Though you are by no means forced to use them. The creatures you will meet are not vindictive.” Seeing their blank looks, she amended, “Not hurtful. They won't try to harm you. They will, however, ask you to answer some riddles, or require you to perform certain tasks, but those require more imagination and intelligence than actual magical skills—and I, at least, am convinced that you lack neither. When you reach the center of the maze, you will be able to claim your reward. Now, don't misunderstand me; this isn't on first-come, first-serve basis. You all have a reward waiting for you, so feel free to help each other, and no back-stabbing, please. If you get scared, or need help—” Some of the older kids scoffed. “—we will be patrolling, and you may call on us. Do try to do this on your own, however. I promise it will be fun and very rewarding, beyond the actual prize.”

They sat still, looking at her, waiting for the signal. Their obedience always startled her.

“Clean up your things, put everything back into place, and when you're done, go outside. Ladies Nott, Silverspring, and Zabini will tell you where to start.”

Immediately, the room rang with noise of books snapping shut, papers being shuffled into folders, ink and quills being stowed away. Ginny walked around, helping when she could, patting Rebecca's shoulder and ruffling Samson's hair as she walked past them. She found Lorelei Prewett struggling to place a book on its shelf, orange braids dangling at the back of her head as her hand extended toward the shelf. Ginny smiled.

“Here, Lorelei, let me take care of that,” she said, taking the book from the little girl's grasp and putting it back where it belonged. Most of the kids were already gone. “Are you ready to go?”

The little girl nodded and held her hand out expectantly. Ginny took it, touched by her distant cousin's soft enthusiasm. Though Lorelei was never one of the loudest participants in the games she played, she brought along a harmonious energy everywhere she went. They slowly made their way toward the garden.

“I made a button fly, yesterday,” the girl said quietly.

“Good job!” Ginny exclaimed. “I'm very proud of you. Did you tell your mother yet?” Lorelei's father, Edward, was constantly traveling, and her mother, Holda, found little time to spend with her daughter. She was, however, extremely demanding. More than once, Ginny had found Lorelei in tears because her mother found her progress with magic too slow.

“No. She said not to contact her until my magic was constant, and it isn't.”

“You know,” Ginny said as they arrived to the garden, “I'm sure your mother is a great person, and you must obey and respect her whenever you can. But my father used to be fascinated with Muggle inventions, and some of my best-friends were half-bloods, and they were the greatest people you could ever meet. Not being magical is not a flaw.”

“Maybe where you come from,” Lorelei said sullenly.

“Can you keep a secret?” Ginny asked, lowering her voice. Lorelei nodded. “I used to live here, in Great Britain. I even attended Hogwarts for a while, back in the days when it wasn't closed off to non-pure-blood children. The wizarding community then wasn't as narrow-minded as it has become since the fall of You-Know-Who. I don't think it's a problem of where you live, but of who you live with.” Neither of them noticed Serafina Zabini, concealed in the columns' shadow. “Do not be ashamed of who you are. And don't let anyone, not even your mum or Mrs. Bjork, make you doubt that you are a loveable person, with or without magic.”

The little redhead looked up to Ginny and gave her a smile. Ginny returned it, feeling cheerless; it was the same smile she had given people after her ordeal in the Chamber of Secrets, the reassuring grin that could fend off considerate adults, but not a child's nightmares. They joined the group of children clustered around Ladies Nott, Silverspring, Goyle and Parkinson. Serafina Zabini showed up soon afterward, a dark fire dancing in her pupils.

Before them stood the high walls of bramble, a wide gate opened in its center. Enormous fireflies floated slowly above the labyrinth, waiting for dusk to illuminate the alleys. Excitement was visible on the children's faces. Draco and Blaise arrived, shortly followed by Angela Bjork and her staff.

“Children,” Angela Bjork said, “prepare your wands. You have until midnight to reach the center of the maze, though if you are in any way capable, it should not take you that much time. Now go.”

Cautiously, one of the youngest boys walked under the gate. The elder children, unwilling to pass off as cowards, imitated him, and soon, all the pupils rushed into the labyrinth. Angela Bjork gestured to her staff; the lime-green and canary yellow clad wizards followed the children.

“They will never make it intact,” Serafina Zabini snorted.

Angela Bjork looked like she couldn't agree more, but a glance at Draco Malfoy's face prevented her from commenting any further. His eyes had flicked toward Serafina in the most demeaning way, quickly dismissing her as not even worthy of his attention. Ginevra Malfoy, protective as ever of the children which she came more and more to refer to as “hers”, was stills staring at the maze's entrance when Serafina's comment brought her out of her reverie.

“Make no mistake, Zabini,” she said calmly, hissing the woman's name like an insult. “Not only will they emerge intact, but matured and happy. That's more than anyone could ever say about you.”

Serafina's eyes flared with outrage as she turned to Lady Malfoy, her hands clenched into fists. Draco, Blaise, and Vivian Silverspring watched with interest. The other women, uncertain of what to do, just stood there.

“Now you little—” Serafina began, reaching for her wand.

Ginny stared at her hard.

“Oh, come on now, we are not at Hogwarts anymore,” she snapped. “Surely you know how to deal with frustration better than by pulling out your wand? And I don't mean by slapping me or pulling my hair, which is about as much as you could manage, I'm afraid.” Serafina's flawless skin was marred by lines of anger. “If you want to talk about this problem you obviously have with me, we can definitely grab lunch some day; it's not as though either of us lacks time, what with the vapid existence we're leading,” Ginny continued, not paying much attention to her words. Blaise and Draco's eyes narrowed similarly. “However, right now, we have a feast to prepare, and possibly some children to take care of. I think that on the night of Samhain, the dead give us enough preoccupations that I do not feel like dealing with the living.”

She nodded curtly to an astonished Serafina, then made her way into the labyrinth before any of the spectators could say anything.

“Temper, temper,” Pansy Parkinson observed, not altogether malevolently. It appeared that Ginny wasn't the only one resenting Serafina Zabini for her excessive jealousy.

Draco watched his wife disappear into the maze of brambles and fought the urge to smile. How long had it been since Serafina Zabini had been put back in her place? It was also the first time he saw Ginevra losing her temper, and he was proud of her poise and pitiless calm. Now, if only he could remember why the way she had pronounced Zabini was so familiar to him…. He looked at Blaise who, making no effort to defend his sister, appeared lost in thought. When he lifted his eyes, they shared a look of understanding. Blaise was repaying his debt.

“Fina bella,” Blaise purred, walking decidedly toward his sister and enveloping her in a hug. “You should know better than to anger a Malfoy.”

“But she isn't a M…” she began to retort as Blaise dragged her away.

“Ladies,” Draco said, “would you mind overseeing the preparations while I try to ascertain that my wife isn't being devoured by one of the creatures we let loose in that maze?”

“Pixies, at the very most,” Romilda commented, a smile on her lips, as she witnessed what could almost pass for concern from Lord Malfoy. He didn't acknowledge her and walked away casually, leaving behind four bewitched, young women.

“Since when did his shoulders get so large?” Romilda asked in a dreamy voice.

“When Lucius was imprisoned,” Pansy Parkinson answered flatly. “It finally struck him that he would have to become Lord Malfoy, and he could hardly have imposed himself with those narrow shoulders of his.”

“Spells? Potions?” Millicent Goyle asked. Incredulity rolled in her voice.

“Training,” Vivian Silverspring answered knowingly. “He acquired a particular taste for fighting, that summer. You should have seen him attacking those mock-gladiators. Watching him, I was glad I wasn't one of them. The after-effects were nice though,” she added.

Pansy and Romilda shared a knowing look. His body was one of the rare things Draco shared—and even then, only to a certain extent—but he certainly knew how to do it well.

“Do you think that his father really die—“ Romilda began.

“Don't be ridiculous,” Pansy Parkinson snapped. “Of course it was natural.”

“Draco would never do such a thing,” Vivian Silverspring corroborated serenely.

Neither looked particularly convinced, but they knew better than to broach the topic. They headed for the center of the labyrinth.

-->

• 11. Celebrating Samhain

October, 1998

“Turn left,” Ginny hissed to a hesitant, young girl. “The Frog Prince will ask you to retrieve his golden ball. It's better than having to clip the Pumpkin Man's toenails….”

The girl gave Ginny a bright smile and chose the left path as suggested. Lady Malfoy walked on, letting the cold air and brambles prick her skin. Suddenly, she heard the noise of crushed leaves behind her and spun around, her wand extending her arm by a few deadly inches.

“Who are you?” she snapped, annoyed at her own fear. For all she knew, it was probably one of the children. Regardless, she added, “Show yourself.”

There was a silence as the shadows moved toward her. She hesitated to cast a Lumos spell, but that move could turn detrimental, instead, and she knew it.

What should I do?

“Now, now, now… You know who I am,” a deep voice said, its intonation heavy with amusement and—

Cruelty? Merlin save me… Could it be…? No, not Tom. It can't be. What do I do now?

Draco, hidden in the darkness, drank the confused nectar of her thoughts.

Think, Ginny, think.

Ginny? he thought wonderingly. The name rang a bell.

“That's enough now,” she said. Her voice wasn't as unwavering as she would have liked it to be. “Would you please come out of the shadows?”

Please, please, come out now, her mind repeated in an increasingly desperate way. Draco could sense the trills of panic coursing through her. He hesitated for a second, wondering what else he could glean from her frantic thoughts, but he felt her reach a peak and stepped out of the shadow.

“What were you playing at?” she snapped as she took in the satisfied glint in his eyes. His feline grace, amongst the other features he and Tom Riddle shared, made her uneasy still.

Tom Riddle? Draco grasped, startled. How does she know Lord Voldemort's name?

“Nothing, Ginevra. I was just looking for you,” he said simply. Any woman would have been blessed to have Draco Malfoy looking for her, but at that moment, it seemed that he alone was aware of it.

“Well, you scared me,” she retorted. Though she felt her limbs slowly relaxing, her heart threatened to imprint itself in her chest by its frantic beating.

“I didn't mean to,” he lied without remorse. “Can I make it up to you?”

Draco, in tune with his wife's wishes and his own, laced his hand in her hair and pulled her close to him. That always worked with witches.

“`Sorry' would help,” she said, nonplussed. Her eyes, made darker by the declining sun, shone with coppery gleams. Strangely enough, the color of her dress seemed to blend with her hair, and from head to toe, she was like a statue of reddish gold.

I have seen her somewhere before I met her, Draco thought, irrationally but with certitude.

“Malfoys don't apologize.”

“No, they don't, do they?” she said, her voice metallic and cold like his so often was. “I have to make sure the children find their way to the center.”

She turned around and walked away from him.

“You were right,” Draco called out. That stopped her dead in her tracks.

“What do you mean?”

“The Lestrange kid.”

“Leo,” she corrected, but there was a softer curve to her expression.

“Well, he's back. You won the bet.”

Tactfully, he started walking toward her. She looked at him, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. It was hard to remain annoyed with Draco when he wanted it otherwise—much harder, in fact— than to genuinely hate him. And that, Ginny thought, is what I do.

“Draco Malfoy, did I just hear you admitting you are wrong?”

“No,” he said, and by then his arm had furtively snaked around her hips. “I'm merely saying that you are right. Now, how about you make sure the students don't get hurt, while I make sure you don't hex some innocent passerby, momentarily stunned to silence by your breath-taking beauty.”

He raised an eyebrow, and she laughed. The signal of truce given, he kissed her. She responded, eagerly and without restraint as she always did, but was distracted by the task that lay ahead.

Leo… Not get hurt… Lorelei, Draco caught in her mind between rather un-cerebral moans of pleasure. Not wanting to keep her from her task, which she seemed to be taking very much at heart, he broke the kiss and directed her down the path. When he tried to probe her mind further, however, he found it impermeably sealed off.

Throughout the evening, they ran into a few puzzled children. None of them were hurt, though, merely put off by some fairy's puzzle or a ghoul's noisy havoc. They made their way rapidly through the maze, their path lit by the giant-fireflies. Wavering shadows crept and receded on the brambles' thorns, casting impressive spikes on the cold soil. When he saw Ginny shiver, he cast a warming spell on her cloak and made a mental note to buy her a new one. She flashed him a quick smile. They moved on.

When they had scoured the outer layers of the labyrinth, Ginny, relieved, claimed that Angela's staff would take care of the rest. They Apparated to the center of the maze. It was a vast square in whose corners pyres had been raised. Four fires crackled energetically as witches and wizards set up heavy, wooden tables in their light. Amidst those tables and benches, Pansy Parkinson and Vivian Silverspring, their wands pointed to the floor, were drawing thick ridges in the ground. Upon seeing the Malfoy couple, Pansy shot one last spell from her wand, then headed for them.

“It's done, Ginevra,” she said. Her voice lacked the antipathy which had characterized it during the first weeks of Draco and Ginevra's engagement. “Vivian is carving the final runes, but my knowledge of those is so limited that I'm afraid I can't be of further help in that regard. When are our families arriving?”

“Thank you. Wait…our families?” Ginny asked, surprised.

“Well, the Parkinsons are related to the Carlysles, the Hopkins, the Diggorys…” Draco began counting.

“The Notts, the Zabinis, and the Crabbes. I'm sure there is a link to the Malfoys, somewhere, but not in the last four generations,” Pansy said, the ghost of a smile on her lips. “Maybe next time.”

“Maybe next time,” Draco conceded. Her recent civility toward Ginevra pleased him.

Ginny shuddered at the thought of her children having anything to do with Pansy's. She also shuddered at the suggestion of her bearing Draco's children, but it wasn't as repulsive a thought as it should have been.

“The Prewetts won't be coming. I don't think the Lestranges could make it In fact, the Averys, Crabbes, Goyles, and Rosiers aren't coming, either. But the rest of the children's parents sounded like they would be here,” Millicent read from a small note pad.

“Thanks, Millie,” Vivian said as she reached their little group. “The pentacle is ready. Are you sure this is all we need to do? No powders, plants, potions?”

Ginny shook her head.

“It has much more to do with the time of the year and the spirits of the departed— once they momentarily return to the earth— than with us. We're just… witnessing, I suppose. The pentacle is like the `window' that enables us to see what we usually don't.”

“Will we see them as they were in life?” Draco asked. His expression was guarded.

“I don't know,” Ginny said. “I had never lost anyone until recently.”

There was a chill to her words that spread to the other wizards. Romilda Nott wondered whether guilt had pushed Draco to ask this question. If what Ginevra had implied was true, then he would understandably seek to avoid Lucius' ghost. But the young Lord Malfoy didn't look particularly troubled as he asked one of the attending nurses where the feast was and why it was taking so long.

“The house-elves are getting ready to send it, Lord Malfoy,” the young woman said, keeping her eyes down out of respect and to avoid staring at his handsome figure.

Ginny charmed the pumpkins she had brought from Malfoy Manor to tumble elegantly from the bramble rampart. The enormous orange vegetables stuck mid-air by their thick stems. Suddenly, the tables covered themselves with wide and colorful dishes. Strewn between clay plates and wooden bowls, candles were gleaming. Ears of corn, small pumpkins, and candy lay on the table, scattered like so many jewels. Ginny turned to Draco, her face lit with a smile.

“Do you think they'll like it? They haven't had any appetizing food ever since they arrived here, and they'll have more candy than they can eat for weeks!”

“Aren't you the darling angel,” he smirked, kissing her forehead.

“Don't be caustic. You don't know what it's like, enjoying an evening where candy is allowed!”

“You're right, I don't,” he said without any trace of regret.

His eye was caught by a particular, yellow candy wrapper. “Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes: Canary Cream,” it read. A wave of nausea brushed through him, and he quickly dropped the candy.

Who could have reopened the store? Draco asked himself, forcing the foreign feeling—guilt or regret, he couldn't tell—out of his throat through a methodic recourse to rationality. He would ask his secretary to look into it. The number of wizards increased as newcomers Apparated inside the maze. Most of them were dressed in black, though Georgiana Diggory sported a pale gray dress and ice jewelry. Amanda Carlysle, for her part, wore her robes grass-green, had primroses around her wrists, and a cuckoo huddled in her chignon. Ginny had moved away from Draco and stood away from the growing crowd, at the frontier of the pentacle. She looked down, pensively.

Without a second's hesitation, Draco reached for her mind. Her head snapped up, and she looked around, eyes narrowed, her hand reaching for her wand. He figured that it was not the adequate moment and relented. Exclamations rose from a group of witches. Ginny turned to see the first student, Elizabeth Diggory, walking out of the maze under the adults' applause. Georgiana Diggory, usually serene and distant, caught her sister as soon as she had emerged and embraced her in a bear hug. Her reaction would have seemed disproportioned-- the febrility with which she caressed the girl's hair was almost unnatural-- had it not been for the memory of another Diggory, who hadn't been as lucky in a similar maze.

Elizabeth Diggory, green eyes shining, was directed to the head of the children's table. Her parents walked behind her, proud of their daughter's achievement. It didn't matter that she had barely used any magic, or that she and two of her friends had made their way through most of the maze together, only to separate at the end so as to not disappoint their parents. It had been fun, and the looks of affection Mrs. Diggory, Georgiana, and Lady Malfoy sent in Elizabeth's way were enough to make up for her initial fears.

“Look, it's Lorelei Prewett,” called a voice as the redhead burst from the brambles, eyes shining with excitement. She peered around, a hopeful look on her face.

Ginny felt her heart clench with the knowledge that her parents weren't there. A subtle stream of disappointment filled Lorelei's eyes as she saw Ginevra—alone— walking toward her, but it was quickly replaced by a genuine smile.

“Eve and Leo are right behind,” she said to Ginevra. Behind them, the Hopkins rejoiced as if their daughter had single-handedly won the House Cup. Ginevra thought sadly of Leo, whose parents, like Lorelei's, wouldn't be here to greet him. She bent down to Lorelei and gave her a strong hug.

“Looks like the women have the upper-hand,” Vivian Silverspring commented as Eve Hopkins threw herself in her parents' arms.

“That shouldn't come as a surprise,” Pansy Parkinson said, remembering how it had always been in Slytherin: the men talked, but the women pulled the strings. Except, of course, when Draco Malfoy and Blaise Zabini were referred to.

“…and then the pumpkin-man said I'd have to clip his toes, and you should have seen them, they were all muddy and orange! So I said no, I'd rather not, and when he said I had no choice, I did Petrificus Totalus, and it worked!” Lorelei squealed delightedly.

“That's amazing! Full-body bind, that's a hard one, you know?”

“Yes! And with Gretel, we managed to figure out which parts of the candy-house were poisonous,—the Revelio Charm showed the ingredients— and there was Fanged Geranium in the door, windows, and chimney, so there was no way that could have been harmless. So, we took a piece of the front steps, and the wall of brambles fell down. Then we split up.”

“Revelio? I didn't learn that one until my third year at least,” Ginny said, uncertain whether she had ever learned it at all. The things these children were taught….

All of a sudden, she remembered Leo Lestrange, who had probably reached the center of the maze by now and would have found no one, not even Ginny herself, to congratulate him. She looked up. He stood in a corner, talking animatedly to Draco, who had squatted down casually by his side. Gratitude flooded her mind. When he looked up and their gazes crossed, she mouthed a heart-felt “thank you”. He merely arched an eyebrow.

The children kept pouring into the clearing, usually followed by one or two nurses. They looked pleased with themselves. After giving in to their parents' greetings, which a number of the elder kids clearly resented, they hurried to the table where fountains of candy spilled from the Abundance Horns above them. They had begun bombarding each other with caramels when Angela Bjork established that they were all there and safe. She nodded to Draco, who coughed loudly. Quickly, the noise dwindled.

“Children, congratulations,” he said, his voice surprisingly warm. Ginny was pleased to see the stance he was taking toward Squib children. “You've done quite a job, getting here on your own. I'm sure your parents are very proud of you, whether they showed up or didn't,” he added pointedly, giving Leo Lestrange a conniving glance. “That being said, I invite you all to take a seat and enjoy the meal while we wait for midnight.”

They followed his suggestion, and soon, the pumpkin soup, sweet potatoes, and turkey were being passed around. From the children's table shot laughter and excited talk about their time in the maze. They appeared to pay no attention to the adults at the neighboring tables, ostracizing, for the first time in their lives, those who had ostracized them ever since they had failed to show talent at magic.

Even the witches and wizards seemed pretty relaxed, however, as if the thought of facing the dead did not alarm them. Ginny could guess why some were absent. Most of those who hadn't shown up had been rumored or confirmed Death Eaters, and it was obvious they would not want to be put face to face with the ghost of one of their victims. As for herself, she did not know what to expect. She watched the hours pass by with growing anxiety.

Draco, meanwhile, was discussing with Gaheris Silverspring and Leander Carlysle the reforms of the British judiciary system suggested and supported by the Minister of Magic. While he partook in the discussion, however, his sense of midnight closing in grew acute. Everything around him became sharp and clear like a razor blade. The image of his father began superimposing itself to Gauvain Silverspring's elven features, to the looming shadows, to the fires that roared eagerly, delineated by semi-circles of runes. Ginny placed her hand on his thigh and murmured, “We should get ready. Do you want me to announce the rules?” It took Draco some time to process her words, his entire attention having been momentarily drawn to that area where her hand had entered in contact with his leg. He nodded.

“Ladies and gentleman,” she announced, getting up. “In a few minutes, the clock, if we had one, would strike midnight. I understand that most of you are acquainted with the celebration of Samhain, but for the sake of the children, I will clarify the rules. Whoever wishes to participate will stand in this band over here.” She pointed to a circular band that lay on the edge of the pentacle. “This is the closest you may get to the center of the pentacle; any closer would be dangerous, due to the magic involved and the temporary thinning of the barrier between life and death. The minor pentacles drawn around the fires will protect you entirely from the ghosts. If you choose to stand in those pentacles, you will not see the ghosts, nor will you be in contact with their power. The remaining area, between summoning and protective pentacles, is neutral. You might see flashes of departed souls here and there, and maybe you'll get a glimpse of their strength, but the effects are not guaranteed either way. For those of you who have never done this before, I suggest you either stick by the fire or line up along the summoning pentacle, but do not remain in between for too long. Is that clear?” she added, looking at the students.

They nodded. Some wizards walked over to the pentacle and motioned to their children to join them. Uncertainly, they did as they were told. Ginny eyed those parents scathingly. She smiled at those whose parents weren't there. In a way, she hoped that this would make the children understand that the choice was theirs and nobody else's. Georgiana Diggory stood by a protective fire, but her parents eagerly pushed Elizabeth toward the main pentacle before retreating with their elder daughter. Eve Hopkins, who was standing next to her parents, slid her hand into Elizabeth's. They gave each other courage. Leo Lestrange proudly marched into the pentacle. Ginny walked over to him and seized his hand; her other hand was shortly taken hostage by a fearful-looking Lorelei Prewett.

“Whose hand do I get to hold?” Draco mumbled sarcastically. Ginny gave him a mocking glance but didn't budge.

“Would you take mine?” came a soft voice behind him.

Ginny and Draco, surprised, turned to see Narcissa Malfoy, clad in dark-gray robes, her hair and neck lined with black pearls. Everything about her breathed mourning, and Ginny was struck by the pain she still seemed to exude. In a few steps, Draco had abandoned his wife. He took his mother's arm and let her lean on him as they walked into the pentacle. Ginny stood very still. The wizards who had already celebrated Samhain felt the sudden chill as it swept through their limbs; everything around them seemed to slow down and gain unearthly precision. The bright yellow light emitted by the fires faltered, diminished, then turned silvery. From the center of the pentacle shot a single ray of light. There reigned an eerie silence.

Slowly, the luminous pole began oscillating and formed a thin cone which, rotating on its axis, grew increasingly wide. It opened like a flower, flattening its folds to the ground, seeping through the silhouettes standing in the pentacle. They were illuminated by a faintly blue, whitish light. Shadows trickled from the center of the pentacle. Some moved on, wafting through the labyrinth of brambles before they reached a specific shape, while others huddled around the pentagon, clearly targeting certain families.

“Oh, Violet,” Pansy Parkinson murmured to the form of a teenager with a pointed nose and waves of heavy hair. The ghost slowly moved its hand toward Pansy's cheek, and the gesture revealed incision of runes in the flesh of her arm. Pansy fell to the floor, sobbing.

Around her, more than one wizard wiped a tear. They were visited mostly by ghosts of wiry, old women and gnarled, old men, but here and there, a man in his early-forties would pat his live brother on the shoulder, or a little boy would hug his cousin, lost in a Death Eater raid. Draco and Narcissa, their faces masks of chalk, watched as the ghost of Lucius Malfoy, looking lifelike were it not for his white transparency, walked toward them. He cupped Narcissa's cheek tenderly, peering into her wide, blue eyes. Her lashes remained thick with tears as his fingers slid through them. Draco Malfoy stared at his parents, a knot in his chest, wishing he knew how to cry, but the bitterness and pressure swelled in his throat, poisoning his mind with sorrow, and no tears could rid him of those.

Meanwhile, Leo Lestrange eyed the ghosts uncertainly. A number of them swept past him and gave him a searching glance, and then, appearing to find him guilty, made threatening gestures. He would have been reassured had he not felt the strong connection of power that united them; this thick mass of pure energy that coursed through him and was undeniably the ghosts'. Lorelei Prewett opened her eyes to see two identical and amused faces peering at her. They were two young men, twins by the looks of it, and pointed alternately to her and to Ginny, whose hand in hers had gone limp. Draco and Narcissa Malfoy were too engrossed with Lucius' ghost to notice anything else.

The ghost of Bill came to Ginny first, his arm protectively cast around Fleur's shoulder. She walked slowly, cautiously, her belly enormous from the twins within. She pecked Ginny on her cheeks, smiling that smile of hers that had been made absolutely divine by pregnancy. Bill then enfolded Ginny in his arms, and she felt him as his limbs swept through hers like a rush of cold air. His scarred features shifted to accommodate a mature, resigned smile. Fred nudged Ginny's shoulder affectionately, then George attempted to ruffle her hair. He appeared truly distraught when his hand failed to affect her coiffure; a small laugh got caught in her throat. Each put a hand on her shoulder, and they gave her a searching look. There was seriousness in their faces like she had never seen before. A quick hug and they, too, were gone.

Percy, his cheeks still hollow from the guilt that would gnaw him for eternity, briskly threw his arms around her. She felt the despair and the frailty in a gesture so alien to him, and tears dribbled down her cheeks. Charlie was next, barely taller than her. He hugged her. Again, this brought a smile to her lips, as she knew she would have been crushed had he been concrete. He gave Lorelei a startled look, then gestured over to the shadows behind him, as if calling someone. He patted Ginny's cheek. Molly Weasley's plump form threw itself at Ginny, immaterial arms striving to get a hold of her daughter. Resigned, she dabbed her eyes with a stroke of her sleeve and placed her hands around Ginny's face.

Ginny, though by no means compelled by her mother's ghost, leaned forward. Molly placed a kiss on her daughter's forehead, hugged her tightly, hesitated, hugged her again, quickly kissed a surprised Lorelei on the cheek, and dashed. Arthur Weasley had been standing behind her. Pride shone in his eyes, and as any other proud father, he embraced Ginny. She let go of Leo and Lorelei's hand to hug Arthur, but he had stepped back, shaking his head sadly. The tall, gangly figure of Ron showed up at last, barely thickened by the few months of adulthood. He gave her a tender smile; the same, uncertain grin that he had greeted her with when she awoke from the Chamber of Secrets incident. That “I'm sorry I didn't protect you” grin. That “I love you too much to know what's good for you” grin. She hugged him fiercely and thought she could almost feel him.

Ron started, as if struck by a sudden thought. He squeezed her hand and walked away briskly. Ginny, her face red and itchy from crying, took hold of the children's hands again and waited for Harry Potter's ghost.

Lucius Malfoy at last placed his hand on his son's shoulder and nodded, for once, satisfied. Draco knew, better than he would have had he heard Lucius' own voice, what he meant. Lucius' gestures, rarely affectionate and always meaningful, spoke better than his words, which more often than not were deceiving and meant to be. Lucius smiled—his lips stretched to reveal pointy canines—and Draco felt relief flooding through him. His father approved; his father was proud. When Lucius turned back to Narcissa, Draco saw a bespectacled ghost standing a few feet from his father. The scar that had once marred his forehead crossed his eye and face until below the lip. Otherwise, he wasn't changed. He eyed Draco with what he, having grown up reading and peeving Perfect Potter, could only interpret as fierce loathing and, more surprisingly, pity.

Harry Potter walked away. Behind him stood Percy Weasley's gaunt figure. Draco stepped back, dropping his mother's arm. She didn't notice. Percy's glare was accusing. Percy's glare was nothing, however, to the look of hatred the Weasley twins and the rather short and stout Weasley man gave him. Arthur and Molly Weasley's contempt was laced with a hint of compassion, though where had they pulled that from, Draco could not guess. He fought not to run away. The sourness in his throat intensified when he saw a young man with a pony-tail, who would have been a handsomer version of Arthur Weasley had his features not been scarred beyond recognition. Alongside him came a beautiful witch whom Draco had no difficulty identifying as Fleur Delacour. The sight of her round abdomen caused his nausea to swell. Bill Weasley glared at him, his eyes untainted by pity or understanding. Knowing he would be sick if he saw more, Draco finally stepped back, away from his mother and Lucius' mute but content ghost, away from his victims.

Ginny had been looking commiseratively at Pansy Parkinson's crumpled form when instinct made her shift her gaze. She found herself face to face with a disfigured Harry Potter, his face halved by the scar that now streaked down his eye, cheek, and mouth. Again, the tears welled in her eyes, though she couldn't find enough sorrow to justify them. The Weasleys' deaths and the year spent hunting Voldemort's Horcruxes had changed him beyond repair. Ginny doubted he would have wanted to survive his arch-nemesis. It had been this sole thought that had appeased her when the news of his death plagued the Wizarding World.

Harry was smiling. Had he been alive, his eyes would have sparkled like scrubbed and varnished fresh, pickled toads. Ginny was relieved to see the calm resignation he exuded. Next to her, Leo Lestrange and Lorelei Prewett were gawking. Draco, having stepped out of the pentacle, watched the other wizards dealing with ghosts that were now invisible to him. Harry motioned to Ginny's left hand and she abandoned Leo's grip to place her fingers in the young man's immaterial palm. He saw the ring. She caught his look as he did, and in a moment of shame, she wanted to pull her hand back. Harry, still smiling, shook his head slowly, whether to condemn her wedding to Malfoy or her plot of revenge, she didn't know.

Draco hesitated to go pick Pansy up. She was still sobbing at her dead sister's feet, as if her parents' allegiance to Voldemort and the price they had paid were her cross to bear. His eyes lingered in his wife when he saw her leaning forward, her head tipped to the side and her eyes closed as she accepted what could only have been a kiss. A burning anger seethed in his insides, eradicating any earlier feelings of guilt and empathy. As Harry Potter's ghost remained absent from his view, Ginevra looked like she was kissing emptiness, and then she pulled back. Draco controlled the cold fury coursing him and walked toward her, discovering on her face a look of serene bliss that he longed to wipe away with a slap.

He tore her hand from Lorelei's grip and hauled her out of the pentacle. Dazed, still under the effect of the spell, she was startled by the similitude he bore to the carvings of fallen angels in Arthur Weasley's copy of the Bible. As children, she and Ron had enjoyed the stories of Adam, Eve, Abel, and Cain as much as the Arthurian Legends, allowing the fantastic illustrations of the books to fill their imaginations with monsters and saints. Lucifer and his chiseled beauty, wings burning as he fell from Paradise, had always been one of her favorites; lo and behold, it appeared she was married to his descendant.

“Draco, what—” she began. “Ow, you're hurting me.”

He dragged her toward one of the fires. There was a lone figure prostrated in the light of one brazier, but few wizards remained. The night, accelerated by the evasion of the dead, was slowly slipping into dawn's blush and gold. Narcissa stood in the same place, locked with her husband in a discussion that transcended words. Millicent Goyle was seen helping Pansy up. They Disapparated.

“We're going home,” Draco said.

“But the children,” Ginny said, trying to loosen his grip on her wrist.

“Angela will take care of them,” he retorted.

Ginny gave a befuddled Leo and Lorelei a farewell glance. Draco pulled her, and she bumped into him like one slams into a wall as he closed his arms around her and Apparated them both to Malfoy Manor.

-->

• 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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• Hesperides' Apple

• Chapter 13

December, 1998

Narcissa Malfoy had remained in bed for the past few days. Scores of renowned mediwizards flowed in and out of the Manor, administrating as much Luna Nevilum as her frail body could tolerate. There were moments where she could stroll about and converse normally, but those spans of time were growing shorter and rarer. Fever would catch her unawares. The attacks of the pox left her exhausted and weak, stranding her in bed for several days at a time. Draco was beside himself with worry, though he did not talk about it. His mother's illness came as a hard blow, particularly at a time when a number of his affairs threatened to collapse.

Blaise had reported that people found Narcissa's sudden case of Harpy Pox suspicious, especially so shortly after Lucius' death. The mirror in Draco's office had shattered when Blaise had voiced these suspicions. The dark-skinned wizard had had to exit the study in a hurry as books began to fly across the room and Draco played with his paper-cutter, a murderous light dancing in his eyes.

Ginevra, calm and tender, stood by her husband and tried providing him with the support he needed. His recent secrecy toward his affairs had not passed without notice from her, though she still managed to gather some information and send it to Hermione. The Muggle-born witch, hard at work at the bank, anonymously thwarted Draco Malfoy's attempts to stabilize his finances. And when the Lord Malfoy came home, irritated by the loss of profits and questioning share-holders, he would find his wife and seek refugee in her embrace. More than once, he fell asleep on her lap, eased into Morpheus' realm by one of her relaxing massages.

When Christmas time rolled about, Narcissa threatened to hex Ginny if she did not go spend at least a day in Diagon Alley to pick her presents. It came as no surprise that her budget was unlimited. All Ginny had to do was take what she wanted, and the bill would directly be taken care of by Gringotts bank. Ginny was appalled but unsurprised to see the extent to which money made your life easier.

Only when an unapologetic witch bumped into her did Ginny realize she had reached her destination. The stores shone green and red with Christmas banners, and the streets bristled with shoppers. She smiled nostalgically, thinking back to the ritual Christmas shopping the Weasleys undertook each year. There was no escaping it, and not one child of the Weasley family—Percy excepted—would have wanted to miss it. The shameful trip to Gringotts would quickly be dismissed in favor of extensive window-licking and less thorough shopping. But in the colorful mass of wizards that day, no redhead would be given a second glance. With that realization, a soft veil of gray coated Diagon Alley. Even the monumental gems in Glauce's Jewelry store could not lighten Ginny's mood.

She made her way toward Gringotts, fastened the scarf around her neck so that it would dissimulate part of her face. Once she had passed the bronze front doors and guarding Goblins, she took her place in the line. It snaked from the entrance to the Goblins' counters, looping and coiling all the way. Ginny sighed resignedly and prepared herself for a long wait.

“Lady Malfoy,” came a raspy voice to her left.

She turned, startled. An obsequious-looking Gringotts goblin stood there, clasping his hands like flies rub their legs. It didn't take long for Ginny to figure out how he had recognized her: pictures of her wedding band had plagued various newspapers during the week after the marriage.

“Please, come with me. We would be sorry for a woman of your standing to wait in the line with commoners.”

“I appreciate that,” she said daintily, though she was disgusted by the obnoxious preference given to wealthy customers.

The Goblin ushered her into a private cabinet where she was served some tea in gold-plated tea-cups. He sat behind his desk and, bringing his long, pointy fingers together under his chin, plopped his head on them.

“So, Lady Malfoy, what brings you here? I do hope that Diagon Alley's stores are following our usual arrangement?”

“They are, I'm sure,” Ginny said. “I am here, however, because I wish to be taken to two vaults.”

The Goblin's eyes twinkled like gold.

“But there is only one Malfoy vault,” he observed sneakily.

“Who said anything about going to the Malfoy vault?” she asked, giving him a look of supreme disdain. He realized he had crossed the line and lowered his head contritely. “Please take me to vaults 687 and 374.”

“Of course. Virgryph,” the Goblin called.

A Goblin of smaller proportions, but so dark he seemed to have roasted, appeared. His eyes were of a limpid blue, sparkling with intelligence. Ginny immediately disliked him.

“Take Lady Malfoy to vaults 374 and 687.”

“Certainly. Lady Malfoy, if you will please follow me.”

Virgryph held the door open for Ginevra, then escorted her down a set of well-lit stairs. They reached the underground tracks. Virgryph helped her into the car, hopped in, and the spotless car sped into Gringotts' entrails.

“Vault 687,” Virgryph said as they stopped in front of the vault.

Ginny stepped out and stuck the little key into the vault. Clicking came from behind the door in a metallic cascade. The door opened. Ginny stepped in and was not surprised to see rather high piles of Galleons and Sickles, gleaming respectably. The Potters and Sirius Black had ensured that his vault was well furnished. She charmed a few stacks of Galleons to fit into a small, padded parcel, then walked back to Virgryph and ordered that they be off.

He stopped them in front of vault 374, whose door was noticeably smaller. She inserted the second key and pushed the door open. A few, meager heaps of gold hid in the corners, and the amount of Sickles was by no means overwhelming, but Ginny was shocked to see, dispersed between dark Knuts, leather-bound books and odd looking statues. She recognized the Egyptian busts and amulets as having belonged to Bill. She grabbed a minutely carved amulet of a hippopotamus with lion and crocodile limbs and slipped it into her pocket. She turned around to exit and saw a mirror on the interior side of the door. Its frame represented two symmetric, young women. In the mirror, she perceived quite impressive piles of money, rising above her parents' meager earnings. Ginny bent forward and reached for the gold in the mirror. At first, its surface was rigid, but it disappeared. She figured it was the twins' way of ascertaining that only a Weasley may get their heritage. She poured a coquettish sum in her bag.

As she stepped out of the vault, she was hit by a wave of nausea. She stumbled. Virgryph, whom she had motioned to remain in the car, sat, politely peering straight ahead. Ginny choked a few erratic breaths, swallowed conscientiously. She closed her eyes and imagined herself in a cool, windy place, for in the past weeks it had helped her get rid of persistent queasiness. Her fingers closed around the Tawaret amulet (1). The instant her skin came in contact with the copper, her nausea vanished.

“When a family member who has recently opened a new vault dies, do you place the vault's contents in the family vault?” Ginny asked coldly.

“Yes, so as to minimize the amount of wasted space,” Virgryph answered.

He brought her back to the surface and, having thanked her multiple times and bowed enough to snap in two, he left her. A few of the people still in the line, apparently recognizing her, eyed her distastefully. She smirked at them in a way that would have made Draco proud.

As she walked out of the bank, she nearly ran into Blaise Zabini and Shehzin Mohammad. Though she failed to notice them and walked on, Blaise immediately spotted her. He nudged Shehzin and nodded in the direction of Ginny's retreating form.

“Blaise, I don't know if—“ Shehzin began.

“We don't have a choice, love. It was the price to pay for you to be here with me. And as much as I like her, my loyalty is to Draco, and him alone.”

Shehzin shook her head. She knew what honor meant to men; she just hoped the one she held so dear would not let it blind him.

“Sometimes, ignorance is bliss,” she said softly.

She planted a kiss on Zabini's voluptuous lips and disappeared in the crowd after Ginny. Blaise watched her walk away. When she was out of sight, he headed for Gringotts, well determined to extirpate information from the Goblin who had helped Lady Malfoy.

Meanwhile, Shehzin tried avoiding Christmas shoppers whose faces were concealed behind piles of packages. Gritting her teeth, she focused on catching up with Ginny. As she did so, her golden-brown skin yielded to paler hues, and her hair turned dark-blonde. Her face now plain and inconspicuous, she walked after the blonde Lady Malfoy into Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. Ginny walked straight to the counter and started conversing with the shop-keeper, a plump, little witch with dimples. Shehzin let her fingers wander in the boxes filled with Wildfire Whiz-bangs.

“This is so that you can replenish the stocks, order some new things, and so forth. How is the research coming along?” Ginny said as she pushed a small pouch on the counter. There was a metallic sound when it came into the chubby witch's hand. Shehzin easily deducted what it contained.

“My younger brother, Jack, he's having a lot of fun trying to come up with new jokes. Some of them are quite good. If you want, I could show them to you.”

“No thanks, I trust your judgment,” Ginny quickly negated. “Develop the ones you like best, so long as you keep true to the twi—misters Weasley and Weasley's legacy.”

“Certainly, madam,” the young woman said. Shehzin guessed that she did not know the identity of her benefactor, or she would have called her “Lady Malfoy” like anyone with survival instinct would.

“Oh, and, Verity, would you have Nabuchodonosor take this to Hermione, please?”

Ginny placed the packet in which were enfolded several hundreds' worth of Galleons.

“Absolutely. He just returned with the formulas for the Fever Fudge antidote. I'm not sure he'll be happy to cross the Channel with this weather, but that's what he's here to do, so—“

“Great.” Ginny beamed at her, though it was hard to tell from all the layers of cloth that covered her face. “Well, then good luck, and I'll see you in a little while. Have a lovely Christmas!”

Ginny stepped out in the cold. A rush of pine-scented air caught her unawares, and she closed her eyes. It smelled like the forest on the outskirts of Ottery St. Catchpole where her brothers used to take her to choose their Christmas tree. She would sit on Bill's shoulders and carefully inspect their surroundings while the twins and Ron bombarded each other with snowballs, eventually ganging up against Percy. “That one,” she would call at last, pointing to a tree small enough to fit in the Burrow but thick with needles. And under Ginny's approving stare, Charlie would lift their father's ax, then lower it quickly at the tree's frail base. Fred, George, Ron, and Percy were in charge of dragging the small tree back to their house, which they gleefully did, pushing Percy in the needles along the way.

“You know, some people would like to get their shopping done before Easter!”

Ginny moved out of the way, barely conscious of the annoyed witch's huff as she walked briskly out of the store. Shehzin followed her down the alley to Gandalf's Grotto (2) where Ginny hoped to find interesting, rather than expensive, presents. Christmas lights sparkled in the windows to the happy tune of “Jingle Bells”.

***

“Merry early Christmas,” Ginny called to the witch at the Information Desk.

“And to you, too, Lady Malfoy,” the St. Mungo's employee said. “Are you going somewhere for vacation?”

“Yes, actually. We're leaving for Uzbekistan in a few days. My husband has some family there. What about you?”

“Same old, same old. Going to spend Christmas with my mum and dad. They nearly had a heart attack when I suggested I might go to my boyfriend's instead, so I stuck to family tradition.”

They both laughed, though Ginny wasn't nearly as enthusiastic. She could only imagine how her family would have reacted, had they been alive. She bid farewell to the witch and briskly made her way to the stairs. She reached the fourth floor whose saccharine smell precipitated her into the ladies' room. She barely had time to be grateful that her hair was tied up and retched in the sink. Bile quickly burned her esophagus and throat, as she had not eaten much that morning, the mere sight of food making her queasy. She wiped her mouth clean and started sucking on a Raspberry Drop before heading for Frank and Alice Longbottom's room. A woman with a pale complexion and dull blonde hair walked in the bathroom as Ginny exited it.

The door was open, so Ginny let herself in. Alice was unwrapping a sweet, and Frank watched her blankly. Neville sat on his father's bed, facing the window, observing his parents. He was even tanner than when Ginny had last seen him, and as robust as ever. Regretful that she would have to cancel her afternoon with the Longbottoms, she slowly backed out of the room. Alice, who had finished unwrapping the candy and had plopped it in her mouth, held her hand out with the plastic in it. She looked straight at Ginny. Neville turned around and smiled warmly. She carefully sneered at him. In the corridor, the blonde woman walked slowly past the room.

“Merlin's beard,” he said, his voice deep and precise, as he got up. He was by her in two steps. “Ginny! I didn't believe her but—“

He hugged her gruffly, squeezing her in his bear-like arms. Ginny wondered frantically how he had unmasked her, praying to all the witches and wizards of old that he may be the only one. When at last he released her, his eyes were bright with tears.

“I thought you were dead! After the attack we all just assumed that—“

Neville suddenly perceived the look of horror in Ginny's eyes. He clamped his hands to his mouth in a very childish way, then walked to the door and closed it. He had the time to see a plain-featured witch with dirty-blonde hair casually looking at her notes as she ambled down the corridor. He turned back to Ginny, only to find her sitting on Frank's bed with her hand on her stomach.

“Are you alright?” he asked, concerned.

“Yes, I'm fine. I just get these waves of…of…urgh,” she finished lamely, then laughed. It felt like a weight lifting from her chest and flying out of her throat. She hadn't been so decadently inarticulate in quite a while. After a moment's hesitation, Ginny got up and threw her arms around Neville.

“Every time I saw you here,” she said, “I wanted to hug you and tell you I was okay. But I always managed to smother that instinct and pull a Malfoy instead.”

Neville guffawed, and she was surprised by the carelessness and volume of his laugh. Then again, it appeared to fit his matured personality. His earlier words suddenly came back to her mind.

“Who didn't you believe?” she asked.

“Who didn't I—“ Neville was puzzled for a few seconds. “Oh! Hermione. She told me you were alive and doing well—relatively speaking, that is, because how can anyone be doing well and be married to a Malfoy is beyond me!”

The boyish comment struck a chord, though she hid it effortlessly. Being a Malfoy isn't that bad, she thought. Neville, his arms on her shoulders, held her at arms' length and grinned fondly.

“Not to mention, you are now blonde! I have to admit I liked orange better. Red. Flaming auburn. However it is you would describe the Weasley hair.”

“Why did she tell you?”

“Huh? Oh. Hermione. She contacted me for some research. You know how Luna and I have been working on finding the cure to the Harpy Pox…”

“No, actually. I thought you had stopped with the Luna Nevilum.”

“I wish we could have. But Luna's father got ill and we've been trying to cure him. Luckily, his worst crime is probably to have let a Blibbering Humdinger eat a defenseless toad, but we think that he may blame himself for his wife's death. He hasn't been doing well, and Luna was crazy with worry.”

“I'm sorry to hear that. I really had no idea.”

“Few people know. The Harpy Pox is not a good thing to speak of. Anyhow… Hermione contacted us with a suggestion. She said we should try using mistletoe. She also sent quite an amount of money and annotated Muggle books with the effects of plants on the human body. It helped a lot. About a week ago, she sent us this Muggle plant, “chave” I think it's called—“

“Chives,” she corrected him. Leave it to Hermione to figure out the missing ingredient.

“Yes, that's the one! We added chives to the serums we had prepared and one of them gave fantastic results. Mister Lovegood is safe, can you imagine? In one week!”

“That's amazing news,” Ginny said, beaming. “Congratulations, Neville! The wizarding world owes you so much.” Her musings immediately went to Narcissa, who could be saved. Happiness filled her at the thought of Draco's relief.

“They do, but I think they owe people like Hermione a lot as well. That's why Luna and I refused to sign an agreement with Malfoy.”

Ginny smiled. Leave it to Neville and Luna, with their rock-hard principles, to try to change the world. She immediately recognized Hermione's knowing hand, understanding that she was killing two birds with one stone: helping Luna and Neville was a way to help save lives, but also to put an end to Malfoy's monopoly of the antidote.

“He must have been displeased.”

“Seething with anger is more appropriate. I thought he was going to break his paper-cutter in two, or throw it at me! He asked me with a voice colder than Iceland—did you see the World Cup, by the way?”

“I did. We put up a good fight.”

“We did. Merlin, I am so happy to see you in flesh and bone!”

“Me too. I mean, not that I didn't before, but it's good to be myself around you and not be sneering, smirking, and snorting my way out of this room. So, you were saying, about Draco's voice being colder than Iceland…”

“Oh yeah. He asked me whether we planned on diffusing the antidote and I laughed in his face. Of course we're going to diffuse it! Why else would we have created it? He didn't seem like he appreciated the remark.”

“Narcissa has a bad case of the Harpy Pox.”

“Narcissa?”

“Lady Malfoy. Senior.”

“Oh. I'm sorry.”

“So are we.”

Neville raised an eyebrow at Ginny's natural reflex to treat Draco and herself as a whole.

“So what are you going to do?” she asked.

“Hermione found us some international sponsors. She's been working with the American, Canadian, and French governments to educate British half-bloods and Muggle-borns. The antidote will help to finance those efforts.”

“I wonder how she manages to do all of this in so little time.”

“Trust me, I have absolutely no idea.”

“Wait, I think I might. She's Hermione.”

“That's definitely a valid excuse… er…justification.”

They laughed. Ginny could not believe how confident and easy-going Neville had become. Standing up to Draco must have involved quite some courage, though for all she knew, he had never lacked that.

“So why exactly did she tell you about me?”

“Luna didn't believe her when she told us that she had been doing some research and come up with mistletoe as a good option. You should have seen the look on Hermione's face when Luna said, `You know, Hermione, if you don't want to tell us about the mistletoe, it's ok, but don't say it was a lucky guess when it wasn't.'”

Ginny roared with laughter. She could very well picture Luna and her wide eyes reading right through Hermione.

“Hermione turned pink, and red, and eventually blurted out that you were alive, married to Malfoy, spying on him, and reporting back to her. All of this in one breath.”

“Well, I guess that pretty accurately sums it up.”

“I'm sure it does. You always were right to the point. Whether you were shutting Ron up, snogging Harry, snogging most of the fifth and sixth years in fact…”

“I did not…” She pondered for a second. “Okay, I did. Right to the point, indeed. It's called the G spot.”

Neville blushed like a school boy.

“I'm kidding!” she laughed, swatting him on the arm. “But don't worry, I am now married and everything I do under the covers is morally and socially acceptable. What else could I ask for?”

“What else indeed…” Neville sighed. Regaining some seriousness, he peered at Ginny. “Are you happy, though?”

“Yes, I think so,” she answered lightly, sounding like she meant it. But a cloud crossed her eyes. “How could I be? Not one day passes by when I don't think of my parents. And even when I do feel good in Draco's arms—don't look at me like that, it happens, sometimes—, I can't help but think of the reason why I'm married to him, of what I've been covertly saying about him, of all the information I give Hermione so that she can deal with him. It's… it's hard.”

“Do you love him?”

Ginny laughed. It sounded harsh and very different from her usual mellifluous giggle.

“I've learned to appreciate him. He's a brilliant, witty, sarcastic man, you know.”

“Yes, I do know, thank you very much. I've only spent six years enduring his biting wit and sarcasm. But go on.”

“He's obnoxious and haughty, but sometimes he can be so charming, sexy, even tender. To me and his mother alone, come to think of it. That's sweet.” A blissful smile peaked at her lips. “Oh yeah. And he's rich, drop-dead gorgeous, phenomenal in bed—“

“Ginny!”

“Moving on… Where was I? The only thing I have a problem with is his stance toward blood purity, poorer people, and anything that isn't like him.” Then her eyes darkened as a thought crossed her mind. “Oh yeah, and the fact that he's responsible for my family's death.”

“Are you sure?” Neville asked softly. He would have been the first one to blame Malfoy, but he felt that revenge and affection could not coexist without breaking Ginny. He would have chosen a friend's happiness over duty to the dead anytime.

“We saw it,” she said glumly. “He got the address of the Burrow, written by Percy, who was our Secret Keeper, and gleefully presented it to Voldemort. It's pretty clear.”

“Well, then. Just make sure you don't judge him without hearing his side of the story.”

“'Hey, Draco, honey? Guess what! I'm Ginny Weasley, you know, Ron Weasley's sister, and, coincidentally, the last one living of a family whom you sentenced to death. I was just wondering, about the address of the Burrow, did you hand it to him on a silver platter, or did he have to torture you a bit for you to give it up? I really hope it's the latter, because that's what you deserve. So, do you prefer the diamond or the pearl earrings?' I'm sure he'd be delighted to justify himself.”

“Malfoys don't justify themselves,” Neville snorted.

“Good point. But then again, when last I saw you, you weren't a mature young man whose research will save the life of hundreds, and you didn't snort. People change.”

“You're the one saying so,” he retorted playfully, and she realized what she had just implied.

If people changed, then did they still deserve what they might have grown to regret? She remembered Draco taking care of Leo Lestrange at Samhain, and she knew that the Draco Malfoy she had been to Hogwarts with would have not spared any child a second thought. That disturbed her. She shoved the thoughts away.

“So, how have you and Luna been doing?”

“We? Oh. We're doing well. She's been in Canada for the past eight months and—“

“Canada? I thought Switzerland was the place to go for abort—“

“She's studying there,” Neville said, looking mortified. “Creative writing in a Muggle college, Make Gills I believe it's called (3). She's having a fantastic time.”

“You must miss her a lot.”

“Oh yes. Hey,” he snapped at her, “don't make me say things I don't mean.”

“You don't miss her, then?” she asked innocently. Their childish banter was like a weight lifted off her chest.

“I do, but not in that way. Living with Malfoy has made you a very tricky and conniving woman, Ginny Weasley.”

“And pretending you don't like Luna Lovegood makes you a liar, Neville Longbottom.”

Neville glared at her.

“You wouldn't be taking things nearly as personally if you didn't, Nev,” she smirked. “It's a reality of life: only the truth really hurts.”

“I'll give you another reality of life, sweetie,” he said, pouting, and Ginny laughed at the use of such a term. “Only the truth really heals.”

He eyed her meaningfully. She pretended she didn't know what he was talking about. Behind them came a squeal of delight, followed by the loud clang of the bedsprings. Neville and Ginny turned to see Alice Longbottom sprawled on her bed and laughing like a school girl. Frank Longbottom's face bore the contented smile of the wise, old man watching a child.

“Five. One, two, three, four, and five,” Frank said serenely.

Ginny appeared puzzled.

“It's the time. It's five o'clock,” Neville enlightened her.

“Five, already? Incredible how time flies when you're with friends! No wonder my existence is so slow….”

Neville guffawed.

“That said, I have to meet Draco and Narcissa for dinner. I'm so sorry. I wish I could stay here.”

“Come now. From what I've heard, your in-law and husband are charming.”

“They can be nice, most of the time, but there's no way I'd prefer them over you.” Her words had the awkward texture of subconscious lies. Neville perceived it but refrained from pointing it out. “I'll be back in a week or so. I don't think we should be seen together too often, but if we happen to be visiting the same patients, well, you know… Maybe we could talk once the door is closed.”

Neville smiled brightly, getting up as Ginny did.

“That sounds great. Wouldn't want to blow your cover….”

“You bet you wouldn't! My wrath can be terrible….” she said dramatically.

“So it appears.”

She hugged him as if clinging to a floating plank for dear life. He awkwardly patted her, uncertain of what to do with her short figure.

“Until next time, Neville.”

He merely nodded as Ginny stood straight, perfecting her hair as she did so, then walked out of the room, a supercilious scowl on her face. Neville's smile did not leave his features. He was too busy marveling at her being alive and well to notice the pale witch who walked past his parents' room for the third time.

***

Narcissa Malfoy sat at her desk, her head buried in her hands. Her silver hair floated against her night-gown, an unkempt braid in her emaciated back. The curtains were closed to keep out winter's aggressive sunlight. Pieces of crumpled parchment lay by the flickering candle. Narcissa crossed out a word, then dropped her quill and methodically began to crinkle the letter. She slowly turned around upon hearing a knock on her door. Draco walked in as she hid the parchments and quill in a drawer.

“Good afternoon, Mother,” he said neutrally. Seeing her so gaunt was like a punch in the gut every time.

“You're home early,” she whispered.

“Disappointed?”

She smiled tenderly and beckoned him to come closer. She kissed his forehead. It felt like ice against her burning lips.

“Don't be ridiculous,” she scolded her son. “I'm just sorry you have to find me in such a state of abandon.”

“How are you?” he asked, the knot in his throat barely allowing the words to come out.

“Not very good, I'm afraid,” she said sadly. “I can't stand the light anymore. It used to keep away the nightmares, but now the pain is not worth it anymore.”

Draco welcomed the news in thoughtful silence. His incapacity to help his mother was driving him sick. What could they do if even money was ineffective?

“Mother, I—“ He stopped himself.

“Draco, I have always encouraged you to say what's on your mind. You never listened to me, of course, but don't you think now would be a good time to start?”

“I was wondering… According to the Mediwizards, the Harpy Pox isn't usually this violent, unless you've committed a crime.” Draco saw a cheerless smile flex her lips.

“Well, maybe I did commit a crime.”

“Mother…”

“Shhhh. There are crimes in society's eyes and crimes in individuals' eyes. What I have done is my responsibility, regardless of what other people think.”

“But what—“

Narcissa's eyebrow raised. She was the very picture of incredulity.

“Draco, please. Don't pretend you do not know what I'm talking about.”

He looked into her eyes, darkened by their dilated pupils. The sinking feeling in his stomach informed him that he was more aware of the situation than his mind wanted to let on.

“You… Had Father asked you to?” he managed to say.

“Of course, Draco,” she snapped, her voice strained. It was liquid with tears. “I would never, never, have done it without his demand and… persuasion…. Though more and more I come to think I shouldn't have done it.” She coughed violently, wiped her mouth with her hand. “The consequence will be the same, anyway.” There was a stain of red on the back of her hand.

Draco's eyes narrowed dangerously.

“He made your swear an Unbreakable Vow?”

She nodded in silence, looking unperturbed at the blood on her white skin. Draco walked over to her and hugged her fiercely. She was surprised by such an outrageous display of affection. Narcissa ran her hand through his soft hair.

“My son,” she murmured. “My adorable, little boy…”

A sob got stuck in Draco's chest. He pressed his mother against him, as if her presence, here, now, could rid him of the emptiness her death would cause. Narcissa patted him gently. She wished he would learn from Ginevra and cry. She had seen her daughter-in-law's puffy eyes enough to know there was something troubling her, but that bawling was often the price to pay for a few days or weeks of calm. Draco would have to purge his sorrow, or it would destroy him.

“I'm so glad you found her,” she said softly. “My only regret is that I won't see those children of yours…”

“Mother, don't say that,” Draco growled. The thought of his mother not living was just too much to bear, and yet the Mediwizards had told him that it was a matter of weeks, of months, perhaps. The Harpy Pox was feeding on her guilt and magnifying it, driving out the will to live.

“Oh, I know you must have been very cautious,” she said, misunderstanding his injunction. “You always were careful not to get any of them pregnant, but you must have been so caught up in your affairs that you lowered your guard.”

“What?”

“Ginevra is with child.”

“How do you know?”

“You men are so blind, dear. It's painfully obvious. She doesn't eat at breakfast. The sight of lunch makes her sick. She's run out of a room with her hand in front of her mouth more times than I can count. And Grainne admitted that Ginevra has been depleting the elves' stock of chocolate and raspberries.”

“Are you sure?” he breathed out, not daring to believe that his plan had worked so well.

“Absolutely. It has been about a month. Congratulations, Draco. You're going to be a father.”

She coughed and he let go over her. She trembled like a leaf under the strength of each cough, though she tried to hold herself to the table. At last Narcissa could breathe normally. Her teeth and lips were orange from the blood.

“I need to rest. I won't come to dinner,” she added uselessly, for she hadn't been to dinner in at least a week.

“Very well. I'll send the ghosts to tend on you. But please, if it gets worse, call me?”

She nodded.

“And, about Ginevra… Would you mind not telling her yet?”

“Of course not, Draco. I'll let you announce her the good news. Good night.”

He kissed her sickly form on the forehead, temporarily inversing their roles. As he walked out of her chambers, an entirely alien feeling of pride and burly joy filled him. He knew Ginny wouldn't welcome the news of her pregnancy as good tidings; that was precisely what he wanted. Her reaction would, without a doubt, be of revealing proportions. It was not, however, the success of his plan's first step that made him so happy.

I'm going to be a father, he thought, with an excitement uncustomary to his habits and expectations regarding the subject.

(1) Tawaret, a pregnant hippopotamus with lion's paws and a crocodile's tail, is an Egyptian goddess connected to pregnancy and childbirth.

(2) Lord of the Rings, not mine!

(3) For those of you who are wondering, this is McGill University in Montreal.

-->

• 14. Escalating tensions and subsequent blows

December, 1998

The marketplace was set between the ruins of a mosque and neighboring buildings. Their maimed facades offered an indented enclosure to the stands decked with colorful cloth. On the rather flimsy tables lay huge piles of fruits and vegetables, so gorged with juice that the magic involved in growing them was undeniable. There was no way the frigid temperature of December would allow them to be grown otherwise. Wizards and witches alike wore large pants and tunics rather than the customary British robes. It wasn't infrequent to see shawls wrapped around faces, for the cold was bitter and people were reluctant to cast warming spells; nothing calls upon malevolent spirits like heat in the winter.

Draco and Ginny Apparated on the steps of the eviscerated mosque. Ginny looked around her with wide, curious eyes, drinking in the picturesque scenery. Draco frowned.

“A marketplace? How common…”

Ginny had already wandered toward the stands and was eyeing the pyramids of spices and tumbling fruit with great pleasure. Molly Weasley had explained more than once how the market is a place where a culture reveals itself. The items sold, the buyers' and sellers' behavior, even the way it was laid out could unravel mysteries of a civilization better than a tour guide would. Her grayish blue robes earned her inquisitive, if not concerned, glances. At last, a woman walked up to her and wrapped a large shawl around her head and shoulders. It was of a faded beige color, garnished with pale pink roses. Ginny didn't stop to think at the utter tastelessness of the article of clothing and let the woman fuss about her in an attempt to arrange the folds properly.

“How much does it cost?” she asked, doubting that the motherly woman would understand English.

“We'll just call it a present from the peasants,” came a drawl from behind her.

She turned, expecting to see Draco, but found in his place a man of similar build with raven-black hair and piercing blue eyes. His hooked nose and high cheekbones were definitely Slavic, though something about him felt eerily familiar. His English was clipped, impeccable.

“Cyrus, what a surprise. I would expect you to have sent a servant or a chauffeur to pick us up,” Draco said smoothly. His arm had found its way around Ginny's waist, but with the other, he cordially shook Cyrus' hand.

“It's good to see you, cousin,” Cyrus responded.

Ginny looked back and forth between the two, suddenly finding their resemblance obvious. Although Draco's beauty was finer, they looked similar enough to be brothers. For some reason, she felt distinctly uncomfortable between the two handsome but coldly dangerous men. She would have to be on her best behavior during the week if such predators were going to be lurking around.

“This is Ginevra, my wife, as I'm sure mother told Proserpina in her letter. Ginevra, this is Cyrus Umayyad, my cousin.”

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Ginevra,” Cyrus said as he kissed her hand. His eyes lifted to her for a split second, heavy with intrigue. Ginevra shuddered. “Speaking of Narcissa, I thought she would be with you.”

“She only took the vaccine about a week ago. Her reestablishment promises to be as swift as the illness was, but she preferred to rest for a few additional days. She'll be here for Christmas, though.”

“Great. I'm happy to hear she is doing better. Father and mother were distraught when they learned that she had the Harpy Pox.”

Draco nodded. Cyrus had been leading them through the poultry stalls and bread stands. Small, white feathers floated in the air. They arrived to a small road, shimmering with morning ice. It was filled with wooden sleds and hovering carpets. A thick and colorful carpet was already waiting for them. Cyrus helped Ginny step on it, earning himself a covert but dark look from Draco. A nod to the chauffeur, and they were flying through the labyrinth of Samarqand. Ancient houses, sometimes half-torn down and that were recognizable only by the mosaics and stained glass they exhibited, assembled alongside modern, three-stories-high buildings. From the sides of the street sprang trees which had become black and scrawny since the beginning of winter, and fountains hid in the crook of walls about every half-mile. The air was dry and cold, yet it smelled of stone, spices, and cloth.

“So, how have your parents been?” Draco enquired.

“Father is doing very well. We've been exploiting oil wells all around the country, and that's working splendidly.”

“Oil?” Ginny asked.

“Muggles use it for pretty much everything. It's their own little magic. Quite amusing, really, what they do to make up for their lacks… As to Mother, she's been advocating for the expansion of your laws of Blood Purity to Uzbekistan, though most of the community here is against it.”

Ginny suspected she would not like Draco's aunt very much, and that this visit would entail rigorous self-control. She felt like she was creeping into a nest of snakes. Suddenly, she was overwhelmed with fatigue, to the point where all she could think of was a bed and warm sheets. Draco felt her head drop on his shoulder. Facing them, Cyrus watched impassively, though his eyes frequently darted back to his cousin's wife, her delicate nose and well-defined lips.

“Leave it to Proserpina to try and change the world. And how is little Astarte?”

“No longer very little, I'm afraid. She's fifteen years old and methodically making her way through Durmstrang's male population.”

Ginny had fallen asleep. Draco wrapped his arm around her to keep her sitting up. The warmth of her slumbering form filled him with quiet happiness.

“She is, in fact, going to be spending Christmas with her new boyfriend.”

“And your parents let her?” Draco wondered.

“He's one of the tsar Illyich Dragovich's, distant cousins, nephews, I don't know what. Mother and Father are positively delighted. They hope she'll remain faithful long enough for them to get married and have a son.”

“What about you, Cyrus? You were always quite the ladies' man… Where's you girlfriend? Dumped you at last?”

“Actually, I dumped her… in the Zeravshan river, after I found her getting cozy with some guy we knew.” There wasn't a trace of humor in his words.

“Women are often deceiving,” Draco said noncommittally, refusing to wonder whether Cyrus' words were true and trying to cast away the memory of Ginny's kiss to a man who was now dead.

Who is he?

“This one looks trusting enough,” Cyrus pointed to Ginny, who in her sleep had slipped her hand into Draco's.

“She is,” Draco answered tightly.

“Anyhow… Mother menaced me to resort to an agency if I didn't find a woman for myself soon. Somehow the idea of my spending the evening with a different girl every time doesn't appeal to her… But a mail-order bride? Perish the thought! So that I can have a scrumptious, vapid, and gorgeous blonde I'd treat as a whore but who would be my wife?” He stopped, startled by what he'd said. “Actually that's not such a bad idea. Apparently Narcissa told Mother that's how you and Ginevra came to be….”

“It is. Though she turned out to be nothing like I had expected.”

“I bet,” Cyrus said, casting a slightly leering glance toward Ginny. “If they're all like her, I most certainly will stop objecting to the whole masquerade.”

“Oh, make no mistake. She's unique,” Draco said coldly, “and she's a Malfoy. Not an Umayyad.”

Cyrus acknowledged the rebuke. As a connoisseur of women, he was often demonstrative in his appreciation of them. That habit would have to be kept in check around his cousin's wife, at least when Draco was around. They exited Samarqand and found themselves in the desert's vast arms. Everywhere the sand was red, looking more like crimson chalk than the fine, white sand so often associated with deserts. In the distance rose uneven massifs, standing sharply against the bright-blue and sunlit sky. At last they reached a belt of high, white walls. The gates opened for the newcomers, and they entered a luxuriant, tropical garden. Ginny slowly began to pull her shawl off, for the temperature had noticeably increased.

“Mother likes the summer weather best. She made sure that we could enjoy it all year round,” Cyrus explained.

The flying carpet came to a stop by the front steps. Draco woke Ginny up with a nudge and a kiss on her cheekbone; none went unnoticed to Cyrus.

“Are we there already?” she asked. “It's so warm… Good Merlin, what a beautiful palace!” she exclaimed upon seeing the mansion-house.

All that could be gleaned from an apparently disorderly architecture were the profusion of white marble, towers, stained-glass and metal roofs, and rose-windows. Arches and columns reached for the sky, using the roofs as launching promontory, and amidst their intertwined fingers, the light cascaded like water.

“This time Draco preempted Cyrus and offered Ginny his arm to help her get down from the flying carpet. She found their gallantry contest silly but decided she could only benefit from it, and so, went along. After all, she was better off if they thought her a weak, defenseless, young woman. They entered the palace, treading on mosaic floors and passing through marble arches as they headed for the dining room. Cyrus' parents sat at a large jade table encrusted with gems, having breakfast. They rose when the three, Cyrus, Draco, and Ginevra, entered the room.

“Draco,” boomed Belial Umayyad's (1) voice. “My, how you have grown!” He warmly embraced his nephew. “And you must be Ginevra. What an honor it is to meet you at last.”

Ginny smiled at the elder man's enthusiasm. His white hair contrasted sharply with his bronze-colored skin and very dark, almond-shaped eyes. He had a predatory grin, which Cyrus appeared to have inherited.

“Aunt Proserpina, it's been a while,” Draco said as he kissed his aunt's hand.

“It has been, indeed. It gives me great pleasure to see you both here today.”

Her silver hair, icy-blue eyes and round, white face marked her, without a doubt, as Lucius' sister. She looked somewhat similar, in shape and demeanor, to Narcissa, but her features weren't as fine, and her heavy lids bore a slight resemblance to those of a half-asleep snake. Proserpina Umayyad (2) kissed Ginevra fondly, though her eyes remained cold.

“Please, have a seat,” Belial invited them. He snarled a few words in Arabic. The air shifted, then additional fruits and delicacies materialized on the table. They all sat down.

“So, how was your trip?” Belial enquired.

“Not too dirty, I hope,” Proserpina observed.

“No, the city looked rather clean,” Ginny said.

“I was talking about the Mudbloods.”

“Ginevra slept during most of the voyage,” Draco interrupted, placing a hand on Ginny's lap to silence her. She replaced her glare with a saccharine smile. “I was surprised to see what people wear. I was certain they had robes when last I came here. I must have been what, seven?”

“They picked up the habit from Muggles,” Cyrus explained.

“That, and their pitiful taste for shawls,” Proserpina added, eyeing Ginevra's shawl distastefully. The young woman returned her stare without moving as much as one of the shawl's fringes.

“The architecture is beautiful. I was sorry to see such a splendid mosque ruined,” Ginny said in an attempt to change the topic of conversation.

“You liked it, did you?” Belial asked, the flicker of a smile in his burning, black eyes. “Cyrus, you could take them to visit the Bibi-Khanyn mosque today.”

“Not today, father. Cousin, Ginevra, I apologize, but I am going to Moscow to spend the day with Astarte. Would tomorrow be good for you?”

“Of course,” Draco said. “That way Ginevra can rest. She's had a few tiring weeks.”

Proserpina Umayyad's eyes narrowed. She gave Draco a furtive look, eventually diverting it to Ginevra's belly. Her mouth curved slightly, looking like a vexed bow. Cyrus, more adept at observing people than at discerning pregnant women, watched Ginevra with heightened interest.

“Don't worry about me,” she replied, smiling. “After such a delicious breakfast, I'll be as good as new.”

As soon as the attention diverged from her, however, she pouted at the baklava and mahmouls in front of her. She ate nothing.

“Draco, dear, you know where your room is. I haven't redecorated that part of the palace yet…”

“The last bastion of tasteful inside decor,” Cyrus muttered under his breath. “I'll show you around, just so that Ginevra does not get lost if Draco is elsewhere occupied.”

“Aren't you sweet,” Proserpina said tenderly.

Cyrus led the Malfoys out of the dining room, into a series of arcades, inner gardens equipped with fountains, and corridors lined with colonnades. At last they reached a room with very vast windows, entirely tiled in coral and gold. Ginny's breath hitched in her throat.

“Not exactly a six-year-old's paradise,” Cyrus commented, “but I'm sure you have grown to appreciate beautiful things, Draco.” He grinned connivingly at Ginevra. “Well then, I'm off. I will see you tomorrow.”

Cyrus walked out, leaving Ginny gaping at the sheets, cushions, and sofas of amber silk. It was like One Thousand and One Nights made reality.

“I would rather you refrain from flirting with my very own, first-degree cousin,” Draco said in a deceptively soft voice.

Ginny turned to see him looking placidly out the window. His features were smooth and sharp, his tone scathing.

“How dare you say such a thing?” she asked coldly. “You don't even have the courage to look at me when you lie.”

When he acted like this, she automatically resorted to insults and implications that would have enraged the Draco Malfoy she knew at Hogwarts. It was he first time they had ever crossed her lips, but she had no idea how uneager Draco was to discuss lies with her. Slowly, he turned to her, raising an eyebrow. Go ahead, his eyes seemed to say. Go ahead, say what you have to say, and then we'll make sure you never say such a thing again. She ignored the threat in his suddenly frigid eyes.

“I was flirting with your cousin, was I? He's the one who has been making comments, and giving me those… those… leers! Besides, it's not even as bad as you make it sound. Maybe it's just the way he is with every woman.”

“That much is certain. Unfortunately, `just the way he is with every woman' always ends with said women writhing beneath him. I could show you his room, if you want. I'm sure he wouldn't object.”

She opened her mouth but could think of no words to adequately express her fury. Horrified, she ran to the bathroom. Only when Draco heard her retching did he feel remotely sorry. Still, if Cyrus authorized himself such comments, she was to blame for having caused them. Draco made his way to the bathroom.

“Look, Ginevra, I—“

“Stay the fuck away,” came her raspy panting.

“You're not feeling well, and I—“

“And you are to blame for it,” she snapped, beginning to seriously wonder about the constancy of her nauseas. “I can't believe you would say such a thing. You are just— She vomited. “Go fuck yourself!”

Draco stepped in the bathroom to find Ginevra kneeling, her arms resting on the brim of an alabaster basin.

“Scourgify,” he muttered.

The acrid smell of vomit vanished, leaving an extremely pale Ginny on the floor. She glared at Draco, looking very much like a trapped cat, but felt too weak to get up and try to punch him as she would have done had he been one of her brothers. He squatted next to her.

“Cyrus is not only a Casanova. He's a Jack the Ripper.”

She sniggered and eyed him mockingly.

“I admit my accusations may have been somewhat excessive,” he continued, and she snorted, “but I don't want you encouraging his behavior. You'd be surprised to see how quickly they go from smiles and compliments to manhandling in this family.'

“It isn't your family for no reason,” she observed bitterly.

“At least I keep my hands to my wife.”

“As damn well you should,” she mumbled.

An awkward silence slipped between them, with Draco looking meaningfully at Ginny and her avoiding his gaze. At last his patience broke. He took her by the waist and helped her up. She let him support her back to their room. Ginevra sat on the bed, amidst the golden flames of the furniture, feeling dizzy still. Draco stood by her, looking thoughtfully at her lovely face and figure.

“Do you know why I haven't come here since I was seven?”

She shook her head, then winced at the pain the movement caused.

“Father and Aunt Proserpina were talking of good old times in her boudoir. Mother walks into the salon, finds Belial smoking the cigar there. She smiles, motions to walk past and back to her apartments, but Belial is up and blocking the way. When she tries to go around him—can you imagine how she, a woman of such standards and refinement, must have felt?—he grabs her by the arm and kisses her. She tries to push him away. You understand that she had absolutely no chance against him. Her robes were already torn across her bust when I walked in. I ran to my father, who sat up as if he had been struck, and suddenly looked like he was going to murder someone.”

Ginny's face was blank with dismay.

“He almost killed him. Pounced on him like an animal, tore my mother from his grip, and started beating him with his bare hands. An accomplished wizard like him—what a waste….”

“He would have killed him, with magic.”

Draco was satisfied to see she now responded to him in a sentence that did not involve the word “fuck”.

“Or scarred him into insanity, more likely. Not that he didn't deserve it.”

“He's your uncle!”

“He was raping my mother,” Draco snapped, “and I don't want his son to have a go at my wife.”

Ginny pondered the statement, weighing whether his concern justified his earlier, blatantly disrespectful accusation.

“You could have told me, rather than forbid me from doing something I wasn't even doing in the first place.”

“It would have scared you,” he countered, shrugging.

“Bollocks. Believe me, it takes more than your cousin to scare me. So why did your mum agree to come back?”

“I think Mother wants us to have a family,” Draco said, and Ginny didn't hide a grimace of distaste. “Proserpina used to be very close to my father. She forgave him the thrashing of her husband, of course, but Father would never set foot in Belial's house again. She came to the Manor, once in a while. She and Mother got along well enough, though not nearly as well as she and Aunt Bellatrix.”

“Must have been quite a pair,” Ginny said snidely.

“Quite,” Draco said, sensing his wife's dislike. “Either way, Aunt Proserpina is one of the few things of Father's that Mother has got left.”

“And you.”

“And me,” Draco acknowledged. “Though hopefully, by now, she's come to the conclusion that I am more than my father's son.”

“Oh, you are?” Ginny asked, innocently.

Leaning over her so that his mouth brushed her ear, he whispered, “I don't know. You tell me.”

His voice sent shivers down her spine, and he knew he had avoided quite a catastrophe. Ginny Malfoy's curiosity and her taste for tales were weaknesses he would gladly exploit. That, and the delightful way her body responded to his.

***

“It's… it's… incredible!”

Draco and Cyrus exchanged an amused look as Ginny gawked, amazed, at the interior of the Bibi-Khanym mosque. Draco had quickly covered the entire monument, having no particular affinity for either mosaics or architecture. He leaned against a pillar and observed the Muggle guard, whose task it was to make sure no one entered the mosque at night. Wizards had long since devised a way to elude his surveillance, and visiting the torch-lit mosque at night was a prized visit among wizards uneager to run into Muggles. Proserpina had insisted that they shouldn't risk being infected, so they had waited after dinner to go into Samarqand.

Ginny walked slowly down the wide promenade, between the scintillating walls and laced colonnades. The torches revealed, by waves of soft light, complex patterns and interlaced, glimmering arabesques. The half darkness was extremely comforting. The mosaics looked as though they breathed, the gold and precious stones pulsating like a softly beating heart.

“They say this mosque was built by Bibi Khanym, Timur's Mongol wife,” Cyrus low and suave voice filled her ear. “According to the legend, the architect fell in love with Bibi Khanym and refused to finish the mosque unless she granted him a kiss. She eagerly did, and they became lovers, but the kiss left a mark on the construction. Timur found out and had them both killed.”

Ginny shuddered but didn't deign turn around.

“Whatever you're trying to say, Cyrus, stop hiding behind metaphors and say it.”

“Astarte remembers a girl who arrived to Durmstrang about a year ago. She was called Ginevra—” Ginny's heart froze. “—but not Ginevra Malfoy, or not even Vassil, as it appears you called yourself before you married my cousin. Her name was Weasley.” Blood pounded in Ginny's head like a drum as she felt Cyrus' breath against her neck. “Now, I did a little bit of research. It appears that the Weasleys were Harry Potter supporters, and that they were killed by Voldemort. Moreover, it so happens that Lucius Malfoy, and perhaps even Draco Malfoy—you tell me—were supporters of said Voldemort.”

Ginny remained mute.

“Aren't you going to tell me to stop hiding behind the truth and say what I have to say?”

She nodded, her throat dry with apprehension, and he chuckled.

“I thought so. You see, Ginevra Weasley Vassil Malfoy… I, very much like Draco, find you highly, highly attractive.”

Cyrus placed his hands on Ginny's hips, and she recoiled. Wheeling around, she glared at him. Shadows danced on his carved features.

“You are just like your father…” she hissed.

“Oh, no,” he smiled. “I by far surpass my father. Whatever I want to get from you, I will get, but I will get willingly.”

“Don't even dream about it.” She found the strength to laugh.

“On the contrary, I've been dreaming quite a lot,” he retorted, stepping forward.

Appealing to the wandless magic she had been taught, she drew an invisible barrier between them. They shattered with one push from Cyrus' mind.

“Don't play this game with me, Ginny girl,” he warned her. “I have much more experience in the matter. Now, imagine what would happen if I told Draco who you really are…”

Irrational fear shot through her, and Cyrus easily perceived it.

“Right. Clearly not to your advantage. What could help me keep my mouth shut?” he asked rhetorically, taking an additional step toward her. “Oh, wait. I think I know. Your pretty, little mouth on mine.”

Ginny's mind filled with disgust at the thought.

“Seven times.” His blue eyes gleamed with razor-sharp lust.

“Why seven? Your lucky number or something?” she tried to joke, frantically searching for a way out.

“You had seven brothers, Potter included. Memories of them are dear to you, I'm sure. It could be symbolic.”

“You are sick,” she hissed.

“Wait until you hear what I have planned for one of our little get-togethers.”

Her eyes widened in horror, and she stepped back, starting to turn around. He caught her by the arm, as Belial had caught Narcissa years before, and pulled her to him. His lips crashed demandingly against hers, his tongue darting between the teeth she had opened in surprise. His hands around her arms were like iron. Ginny bit his tongue, letting go only when she felt blood's ferruginous taste, then slammed her knee up his groin. He doubled over, cursing, and she brought both her fists together onto his head. He collapsed. She ran away quietly, making sure her little racket hadn't been heard, and when she was within Draco's field of vision, she started admiring the sculpted metals and stained glass lamps. Her heart raced, but she walked on casually.

***

The following days, Ginny did not leave Draco's side. When Proserpina took him aside, she would barricade herself in her room. Despite frequent waves of fatigue, which had begun to alarm her, she only slept at night, fearing the very notion of a nap during which she could be crept upon, unawares. Draco noticed his wife's extreme nervousness and tiredness, but he attributed it to a pregnancy she was so far from imagining that the possibility of it hadn't even brushed by her. Cyrus' excessive sweetness toward Ginny, laced with an unmistakable desire, kept Draco alert.

Narcissa arrived on the morning of December 24^th. She was still frightfully thin, but a healthy glow lit her cheeks. Draco greeted her with relief, and Ginny was likewise happy to see her looking healthy enough. Proserpina had gone to fetch her in an unparalleled display of affection. Narcissa greeted Belial rather coldly, which was understandable given the circumstances of their last meeting. Belial threw surreptitious and almost apprehensive glances to Draco, as if fearing to enrage him as he had Lucius by behaving inappropriately.

“So,” Narcissa said after they had all sat down, “Proserpina, can I help with preparations for tonight?”

Ginny repressed a snort; help for any sort of event usually involved eating crumpets and ordering house-elves around.

“Actually, I thought that your recent— er—state of health wouldn't make you particularly eager to have a big reception. Only Belial's brothers and sister will be here, with their companions and children, of course.”

“How very thoughtful of you,” Narcissa exclaimed, looking noticeably relieved. “Dinner at nine, I suppose?”

“As usual. Now come, I have to show you this new batch of Royal lilies. They're absolutely gorgeous.”

The two women exited the room. Cyrus proposed a game of Wizarding tennis, and Draco gladly accepted. Ginny followed him to their room, where he got changed.

“How many siblings does Belial have?” she asked

“Four. Three brothers, of whom he is the eldest—luckily for him—and a younger sister.”

“That seems like a big family.”

“It is, particularly for rich pure-bloods. Four males of the same generation is not a good idea, though I suppose that Belial managed to keep them in check.”

“All married?”

“All, except for the sister. She had a daughter out of wedlock, though, and never revealed who the father was.” Draco laughed, emerging from the bathroom wearing white shorts and polo shirt.

Ginny wanted to point out that for someone who despised Muggles, owning some of their sportswear was rather paradoxical, but she figured he would claim wizards had invented tennis and the clothes that go along.

“She'd been living in Albania for a while, but she came back, pregnant, and lived with her parents until they died. Though they weren't very proud of her, they stuck by her, and more than one man was hexed into oblivion when he suggested that she become a common good, as is the custom for unmarried, pregnant women.”

“That—that's disgusting!”

“The Umayyad opposed to it, though,” he said as he finished tying his tennis shoes. “Are you coming?”

Ginny nodded and followed him, admiring the way the shirt brought out the width of his shoulders. He was so muscular, and yet lean like a panther, that she felt like running her hands on him to better appreciate the beauty of it.

“Save that for later,” he said, amused, without turning around.

Damned Legilimency, she thought with humor.

“Mmmh, yes,” she said, sauntering after him and sliding into his arms, “a good, long shower after tennis sounds good.”

He shot her a sly look.

“Keep thinking like that, witch, and the shower won't wait until the end of the tennis game.”

Ginny laughed.

“No, I want to see you play. So the sister came back. What do the others do in life?”

“One is a researcher in ancient Babylonian writing, the second is Minister of Defense and owns most of the marketplaces in the country, and the last one—”

“The last one is a professor at the Salem Witches Institute,” Cyrus finished for him. He stood in the doorway, the lines of his face and body delineated by the subtle game between light and dark. Ginny, despite her repulsion toward his increasingly sly personality, had to admit he was devilishly handsome. She prayed that Draco didn't catch her thoughts and snuggled closer to him for support.

“Precisely. So tell me, Cyrus, have you been playing a lot since our last game?”

The dark-haired young man grimaced with mock pain and then grinned.

“Enough so I can take my revenge.”

“Is that so?” Draco asked playfully.

Cyrus nodded, and they exchanged daring looks. Ginny felt caught between two males fighting for domination. Though the concept was amusing, it chilled her to imagine that they could take this seriously. It didn't appear like they did, but with an upbringing like theirs, it was hard to tell. They went out the back door, which was about as large as one of the Burrow's facades. They crossed the large, perfectly manicured lawn, eventually reaching the area where a tennis court, which looked like any Muggle tennis court would look, awaited them. Its surface was of a terra-cotta red, granular and elastic like the best clay courts.

Cyrus summoned a chair and parasol for Ginny, who settled down at a reasonable distance from the limits of the course. Though she had never played, she had seen Draco play often enough to know what to expect. She didn't want to be in the path of one of Draco's aces. The two men stood at opposite sides of the court and began warming up. As soon as the yellow ball sent by Cyrus hit Draco's side, the boundaries of the terrain wobbled and changed, forming a rather odd triangle on Cyrus' side. Draco hit the ball, which went speeding toward the triangle's right edge. Cyrus retaliated with a similar blow. Ginny smirked.

Why bother calling it warm-up if you're hitting with all your strength from the very start?

She watched the feline grace with which Draco leaped, his agility and swiftness backed up by solid strength. She loved the way his muscles flexed and swelled when he played, the ease with which he slammed the racket against the ball. Whether or not she admitted it, she was a sucker for his displays of raw strength.

Of a common accord, Draco and Cyrus walked to the net.

“Are you ready to being?” Cyrus taunted.

“Of course. Do you want to serve first?”

Cyrus' eyes gleamed maliciously.

“Tell you what… How about we play for something. That way it'll be more interesting.”

“Very well,” Draco said, tempted by the idea. “What would you like to play for?”

“The winner gets a kiss from Ginevra.”

Ginny heard Cyrus' proposition and paled. If she knew Draco at all, he would never—

“It's a game, then,” Draco said, his eyes narrowing dangerously.

They shook hands. Ginny fell back in her seat, aghast. What was Draco thinking? The game began, and Ginny was surprised to find the speed and strength of their hits doubled. She would have felt flattered had her mind not been paralyzed by the possibility of having to kiss Cyrus. After the blows she had resisted him with, she couldn't imagine his not having something up his sleeve. Never had she so fervently prayed for Draco's victory.

Unfortunately, Cyrus was giving Draco a hard time, and the latter did reciprocally. They appeared well in tune with each other's game, and the confrontation was all the bloodier. They sprinted, dashed, flew, twirled, and hit the ball so violently Ginny doubted it would still be spherical by the end of the game. Time passed by swiftly, marked by the bouncing of the ball and the men's grunts as they swung. They were at two games each, and the tie break began. Ginny nervously twisted the folds of her robes.

“Boys!” Proserpina's voice floated in the garden. “Lunch is served. Come along!”

Immediately, they stopped playing, having been reared never to make their elders wait. Unsurprisingly, given the game, they were still tied. Ginny felt her heart quieting down. They picked up their water bottles and made their way toward her.

“I guess it's a tie, then,” Cyrus said noncommittally, though he looked rather unhappy.

Draco nodded. Ginny saw a flash of cold fury streak the gray of his eyes. Before she could brace herself, he had pivoted, and his fist crashed into Cyrus' face, who fell back clutching his face.

“A little something for you to remember, cousin. If you ever so much as think about being kissed by my wife, this very same fist will make you a cripple for life. Is that clear?”

Cyrus threw him a glare filled with loathing but didn't reply. He dusted his shirt, now smudged with grass stains. He slowly pulled out his wand—Ginny feared for Draco, but he didn't flinch—and cast a healing spell on his face. Ginny let out a sigh of relief. They headed back to the house in silence. Narcissa gave them a questioning look when she caught the glimmer of ferocity in her son's eyes, but there was only so much Ginny could tell her with a meaningful glance. They reached the dining room.

1. Belial means “one who opposes God”, and is one epithet given to Satan. Umayyad was one of the great Persian dynasties.

2. Proserpina, the Roman equivalent of Persephone, was Queen of the Underworld and married to Pluto (Hades).

-->

• 15. Christmas Secrets

December, 1998

Samarqand, Uzbekistan.

Ginny was only too happy to hear Draco suggest a nap after lunch. Proserpina had been ranting about “filthy Mudbloods,” looking to Narcissa for support, and the anger churning in Ginny's chest had threatened more than once to leap out, a fact only increased by Cyrus' obsequiousness. Draco, paler than snow, was evidently livid to see his warning disregarded. Ginny hoped that the arrival of the rest of the family would be enough to dilute the increasing tension. Draco took a shower and walked into the room to find Ginny half asleep, her face buried in her arms. She gave him a faint smile when he emerged, surrounded by a cloud of steam, wearing only a towel around his waist.

“You're going to hold me to my earlier promises of shower fun, aren't you?” she asked with such grogginess that he realized he may have awakened her.

Draco kneeled on the bed and lounged by Ginny's side. He smelled like mint and wood. She let the clean scent of her husband envelop her. He perceived the desire his presence aroused in her, but saw it dampened by fatigue.

“No, as a matter of fact, I won't,” he murmured, placed her head on his chest, and then closed his eyes. “I need to rest, too. It was a tiring game.”

Ginny stirred and propped herself up on one arm.

“Speaking of which,” she began, her voice suddenly venomous, “how dare you sell one of my kisses without asking for my consent?”

“Doesn't matter,” he said gruffly.

“It matters enough for you to punch your own cousin about it! What if I didn't want to kiss him?”

“I should hope not. Besides, I wasn't going to lose.”

“That's not the point, Draco. I am not yours to dispose of!”

“Look, I just needed to put him back in his place—“

“Namely away from me, your trophy wife? I don't think so!”

She failed to perceive the anger boiling inside him.

“Oh, really?” he asked coldly. “Would you like to know how much I paid for you to Hesperides' Apples? Hera Cornelli had never seen such a sum offered for one of her trophy wives, I can tell you that much.”

Ginny's eyes widened in outrage as she momentarily forgot that this was part of her plan and felt the blow strongly. She sat up angrily. His muscular arm brought her down as easily as if she had been a tennis ball. She squirmed but was effectively pinned against him.

“You know I didn't mean to bring this up,” he said softly, almost sadly. “All I'm saying is that I saw Cyrus getting lusty-eyed whenever you were around, and that I reacted accordingly.”

“Well, you just can't…” She tried to push him away. “You can't do things like that…” She writhed. “…without asking me first.” A pant. “Let go of me.”

“No.”

He loved to feel her struggle against him, much like when she tempted him, surrendered to him, played with him… The possibilities were endless. She tried to pull away and he tightened his grip.

“You should stop moving like this, or I will have to hold you to your promises of shower fun.”

Ginny immediately stopped fighting. Draco, his face buried in her hair, smirked. He promptly fell asleep. Alternately angered and reassured by his inescapable embrace, she, too, let sleep claim her already yielding body. The room glimmered golden around their white and blonde bodies until the sun dropped in its course and the temperature became agreeable. Draco was the first to wake, startled to have slept so peacefully. The sight of Ginny's harmonious features, particularly calm and soft when bathed in sleep, pleased him. He thought of the upcoming evening and sighed. It had been a long time since he'd last seen his cousins; some of them weren't even born when he had come to Samarqand as a child. And then there was the elusive, aunt; the one who had vanished for a few years and who, according to Narcissa's earlier revelation, had died a few months ago, leaving behind a daughter. Said daughter had always been isolated from the rest of the family.

“Secrets, secrets,” he murmured pensively, not surprised to find that they plagued every family, including his. Blaise's most recent owl had informed him of Ginevra's visit to Gringotts, and since Draco had been present when Narcissa had explained to her that she did not need money for her shopping, he couldn't help but wonder why she would, nonetheless, go to Gringotts or stop at Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. Blaise's succinctness was exasperating.

“Ginevra, wake up,” Draco whispered against the soft skin of her throat. She moaned in reply but turned toward him and hugged him; however, she slept on. “Ginevra, we have to get ready for dinner.”

She didn't budge. Draco trailed his hand down her neckline and let it rest on her breast, knowing all too well how sensitive she was there, particularly in the last few weeks. She squirmed. He flattened his palm against the peak, rubbing it slowly until she moaned again on an altogether different tone.

“Nooooo…”

“Ginevra…” he growled.

Ginny opened an eye, then the other, and glared at him sleepily. He kissed her nose, making her momentarily cross-eyed as he neared his face to hers.

“Wear the plum dress with gold jewelry,” he said, then hopped out of bed to find suitable clothes.

She lingered in the state between slumber and wakefulness for a few minutes, but Draco's absence left her feeling unprotected. At last she rose, feeling cranky and particularly uneager to endure dinner with the entire Umayyad family.

Let the Weasleys' legendary patience and self-control be of use tonight, she thought wryly and headed for the bathroom. She quickly found the dress Draco had been talking about—a strapless cocktail dress of a deep plum shade with a particularly long slit in the side that revealed her legs when she walked. Ginny was annoyed to find that she had put on some weight, as the dress clung to her very tightly. Though she understood that Draco would not be displeased to see that, she couldn't help but feel that the rest of his family might find it inappropriate.

Then again, only Cyrus would notice.

A shudder coursed through her. She tied her hair in a side, rather loose braid and slipped a golden serpent up her left arm. She complemented the bracelet with simple golden rings, bangles, and oriental earrings that Shehzin had given her. Upon stepping out of the bathroom, she felt refreshed. The look that Draco— clad in black robes that fitted him to perfection— gave her filled her with satisfaction. He kissed her hand playfully.

“Whoever you may be, gorgeous, come with me quickly before my wife returns.”

Ginny swatted him on the arm.

“So it's that easy to tempt you, is it? A curve-fitting dress with a slit up to the navel and you're disavowing your wife?”

“Up to the navel?” he asked, his eyes sparkling. He slid his hand toward her thigh. “And I thought it stopped mid-thigh…”

“Back off,” she chastised him. “Be good or you won't have any dessert.”

“Oh, I'll be good alright,” he retorted slyly. “So good you'll keep asking for more.”

“Don't I anyway?”

He grinned broadly, and she smirked, amused at how easy it was to flatter him. They made their way toward the grand salon where Belial, Proserpina, and Cyrus were welcoming their relatives. A tall and skinny man who bore a close resemblance to Belial was talking energetically to Narcissa. Draco instinctively led Ginny to where his mother was.

“Ginevra, Draco, this is Sut, Belial's second youngest brother—darling, I don't know if you remember Uncle Sut and Aunt Sophia?”

“I most certainly do,” Draco said, embracing his aunt and uncle. He added conspiratorially, “You were the only ones whose names I could pronounce.”

Sophia Umayyad emitted a throaty laugh which shook her black tresses and made the beads caught in them click against each other. She was a tall and shapely woman with skin like melted chocolate, whose voice rang strong and whose convictions were even stronger.

“I remember when your father punished you for claiming that my boys' names were `crude'. They'd give you a thrashing themselves now if ever you said that!”

“And I would deserve it,” Draco admitted good-naturedly.

“Mahrem, Beher, this is Draco, Proserpina's nephew, and Ginevra, his wife,” Sut introduced the Malfoys to two athletic young men.

They exchanged greetings. Ginny was happy to notice that both men's looks were frank and their smiles candid. She thought their accent was American, a fact that was confirmed when Draco asked how it was, growing up in New York City. Beher was more eager to respond than Mahrem, whose responses were poised and calm. Neither looked his age, as they were thirteen and fifteen, respectively, but appeared to be adults. A new set of wizards arrived, and Ginny, Mahrem, and Beher exchanged sorrowful looks. “On with the politics”, they seemed to say. Draco was too well-mannered to not put on a charming smile as he dragged Ginny toward the newcomers.

“Zalambur, it's been a while,” he exclaimed to the shapely man in front of him. Zalambur Umayyad wheeled around, his dark eyes gleaming, his face thick with a jet-black beard and mustache.

“Draco, my boy! How you've grown! Hasn't he, Scheherazade?” Zalambur asked his wife. The woman nodded and smiled brightly.

“Uncle, Aunt, this is Ginevra, my wife,” Draco said. “How have you been? How are the kids?”

“Now, now, Draco. I'll have you know that my Shafan is twelve years old,” Zalambur said proudly. “He isn't a kid anymore!”

Scheherazade shot a surreptitious glance toward two women standing in the shadows.

“What about Salome and Balkis? How are they?”

“The usual,” Zalambur said dismissively. “At least they'll be of some use tonight, what with Shezbeth's little girls,” he spat the word, “and all. Come, we men have things to talk about.”

Draco gave Ginny an apologetic glance, but, well aware of his uncle's misogyny, thought better than to have her endure his discourse. Ginny was left with Scheherazade. The elder woman's face was marred by age lines, though her eyes were bright and her hair thick like a lion's mane. As soon as Zalambur had turned his back, her smile faltered and became softer. She gazed at her daughters fondly, then nodded to Ginny, looking meaningfully at the two women who remained in the background.

“Are these your daughters?” Ginny asked.

Scheherazade merely nodded, and with a gesture of her little hand, drew an imaginary line from Ginny to the women.

“I'll, uh… Just go introduce myself, then,” Ginny said, puzzled by Scheherazade's reticence to speak. Her suggestions caused a serene smile to bloom on the elder woman's lips.

So Ginny walked over to the women, whose eyes remained fixed to the ground. Their heads were covered with shawls that matched their robes, both of which left bare only their faces and hands.

“Hi,” Ginny said brightly. They looked up, startled. “I'm Ginevra, Draco's wife.”

“It's a pleasure to meet you,” said the woman who appeared to be the eldest. “I am Salome.”

“And I am Balkis. Delighted to make your acquaintance.”

They kissed awkwardly.

“I just met your mum and dad. It must be nice to have such a big family.”

“Yes, it is truly a blessing,” Balkis said, keeping her voice low.

“So, what do you do in life?” Ginny asked.

“We study,” Salome said.

“Really? That's lovely. What are you studying?”

“Dance,” Balkis said. “Music. Raising children.”

“Gardening. Hosting.”

“Making your man happy?” Ginny added, thinking their comments to be sarcastic.

The sisters nodded calmly. Ginny felt like she had just stepped out of a cold shower into a glacial bathroom. At that moment, three little girls threw themselves at Salome and Balkis. Their eyes were slanted and their skin much whiter than the elder women's.

“Salome, Balkis, it is good to see you,” came a voice from Ginny's side. She turned to see a beautiful woman wearing a ruby-red kimono. Her raven black hair, porcelain face, and clothing made her look otherworldly.

“Likewise,” Salome answered, and there was a genuine smile on her face as she patted one of the little girls' head.

“You must be Ginevra,” the woman continued, turning to Ginny. “I am Ba Li Nu, Shezbeth's wife. I am pleased to meet you at last.”

Ginny was surprised to feel Ba Li Nu's round abdomen when she embraced the woman. A fourth little girl, apparently a few years older than the others but with similar features, was busy explaining to Balkis the happenings of her first year at school.

“Congratulations,” Draco said to Shezbeth as they clapped each other on the back. “That's quite a family you have there.”

“Thank you. They are my life and hope,” Shezbeth said calmly, using the protective expression as if to ward off evil. His eyes were soft behind his glasses, though his set jaw and strong hands denoted determination.

Four girls and a fifth baby on the way? Draco thought, peering from the other side of the room. I wouldn't have guessed Shezbeth to be as male-oriented as Zalambur.

“So, how have affairs been going?” Sut asked Zalambur. “I've been in America for so long that I barely know what you're up to these days.”

“Things are going well, my brother,” Zalambur said with a satisfied grin. “Being in the Ministry definitely helps for, ah—affairs,” he let out smoothly. Draco, though he was not well acquainted with his uncle's dealings, knew that there was more at stake than his work as Minister of Defense or owner of many Uzbek markets. “What about yourself? Did all of your students graduate successfully?”

“Most of them did, yes,” Sut answered, looking pleased. “Though I'll have to admit that those scrolls you sent gave them a hard time, Shezbeth.”

“Ah, well, you know how it is with Babylonian writing. You can't expect to be a translator without being able to decipher it perfectly. I'm glad they were of some use, though. Ba Li Nu was very reluctant to have them sent over.”

“She was, was she? I suppose you eventually showed her who was the Lord of the House,” Belial said, half-jokingly.

“You could say that,” Shezbeth conceded. He failed to add that, in that case, the Lord of the House had treated the Lady of the House to a weekend in the Easter Islands to study the monoliths there. “And how has it been with Izha?”

“She's well,” Sut said, his voice suddenly somber. “The loss of her mother was quite a blow—“

“As it was to all of us,” Zalambur interjected.

“Peace on her soul,” Belial added, and the other men nodded.

“But she gets along with the boys very well, and they found in her the older sister they never had. The Cosmopolitan School of Magic has accepted her and she's been pursuing her studies—“

“You let Haiwa's daughter study? In a public university?” Zalambur said severely.

“It would appear, from the documentation left by Mother, that Haiwa always encouraged Izha to get an education. I hear she's a good midwife—“ Shezbeth countered.

“I suggest,” Belial interrupted, feeling the friction mount between Sut and Shezbeth on the one hand, and Zalambur on the other, “that we move on to the dining room. There's quite a feast awaiting us.”

The men therefore headed for the dining room, shortly followed by their wives, who ushered the children before them. Ginny, who had been speaking with Ba Li Nu, slipped next to Draco and pulled him to a corner.

“Ba Li Nu said Scheherazade and Zalambur met through Hesperides' Apples.”

“Yes, they did. That's how Mother got the idea for me.”

“And he married her, despite the fact that she was a mute?” Ginny asked. There was an edge to her voice, as if she wanted to lead him into saying something he did not intend.

“It's called love at first sight, Ginevra, not at first conversation. Apparently, she was born like that.”

“She wasn't,” Ginny said flatly. “At Hesperides' Apples, Hera Cornelli always reminded us of the different women who had married eminent and wealthy men.” Draco sniggered. “Scheherazade was part of those, and you know why? Because of her voice, Draco. She could have sung any bird to shame, and she was the best story-teller anyone had ever heard of.”

“That's lovely,” Draco said, trying to pull Ginny toward the dining room from which wafted the scent of roasted lamb.

“He did this to her. Zalambur. Did you see the way he treats his daughters? I wouldn't be surprised if he was to blame for her `birth defect'.”

“So?” Draco said. “He's her husband, isn't he? What happened to right of life and death over one's woman?”

Ginny looked at him, surprised. She clearly hadn't expected such a reasoning from him.

“If he did anything to her, she must have deserved it. Who knows? Maybe she was…” He looked at her meaningfully. “…plotting behind his back?”

“She deserved it? I can't believe you would say that,” Ginny ranted. She failed to understand the warning, horrified as she was, at the thought of anyone being punished in such a way. “That man is—“

“My uncle. Besides, you do not know whether he has done this, so I would suggest you watch your temper and keep your mouth shut if he comes at you with the butter knife.”

Ginny snapped her mouth shut and angrily walked away. Draco was by her in a few steps. Smirking, he took her arm, and they entered the living room, the very image of the perfect couple. The Umayyads were taking their seats when Draco felt Ginny grow tense. Her grip on his arm tightened and the sidelong glance he gave her revealed that she was whiter than snow. Her eyes were closed and her mind like an egg, sealed and protected.

He has a daughter.

Had Draco looked a few seconds earlier, he would have caught his wife's appraising stare and the way it hitched when her eyes fell on Izha Umayyad. Though the woman's eyes were bright like aquamarines, her razor-sharp features, sunken cheeks, and jet-black hair left little to the imagination. Ginny, unwilling to wonder how Tom Riddle had gotten Haiwa Umayyad pregnant, shut her eyes and wished that everything would vanish, that she could be back at the Burrow with her family, Harry, and Hermione celebrating Christmas in a homely fashion.

But nothing of the sort happened, and Draco escorted her to her seat. Ginny felt her heart beating in her temples, and the noise and pressure only increased when Izha Umayyad took the seat across hers. Draco nodded to Izha, who gave him a serene smile. Her wrists and neck were very thin, Draco noticed, and when Izha tucked a strand of her interminable, black hair behind her ear, she revealed a mark carved across her cheek: a cross surrounded by a circle. (1) No one in the family seemed to notice or care. The appetizers materialized on the crystal and porcelain ornamented table.

“Bon appetit,” Proserpina said, raising her glass.

They all raised their glasses in response—Cyrus' hand brushed Ginny's as he did so— reiterated the blessing, then began to eat. The table was long enough for the entire family to sit, so the children were included and expected to participate in conversations. Their manners were impeccable, even more so than some of the adults'—Zalambur showed little grace in shoving immeasurable quantities of food in his mouth, and his brothers, Cyrus, and Shafan, were little more well-mannered. Mahrem and Beher, though they clearly longed to stuff themselves as well, were kept in check by Sophia's warning glare. The women ate like birds. Ginny kept casting glances at Izha, until she found Haiwa's daughter beaming at her. She was taken aback by the beauty and warmth of the smile, for it made Izha's face glow with peaceful contentment and breathed goodness like Ginny had never seen. She looked down. The sight of such a smile on the face of Tom Riddle's daughter was beyond her understanding.

Dinner went by rather swiftly, punctuated by the apparition of additional dishes and the tinkling of silverware against the plates. Ginny, seated between Cyrus and Beher, flatly ignored the eldest and listened to Beher talk about life in New York City. She found him bright and amusing, and extremely respectful of his mother—a fact that comforted her in her opinion that males issued from a patriarchal family need not necessarily be pricks like Cyrus, Shafan, or even, at times, Draco.

Draco, for his part, was seated between Narcissa—an uncommon gesture of kindness on the part of Proserpina, who had come up with the table plan—and Salome. His attempts to engage the latter in a conversation resulted in her blushing like a school-girl, keeping her eyes fastened to the lamb cutlets in her plate, and answering platitudes in an uncertain voice. He found her bashful and dull, and without a second thought turned to his mother, failing to feel compassionate for this girl whom etiquette had smothered. Occasionally, he glanced over at Ginny, whose attempts to shun Cyrus were skillfully avoided by him. The conversation appeared to go on between Cyrus and Beher, with Ginny occasionally participating and eyeing Cyrus' arm with concern as it casually wrapped around her chair.

Dinner ended as the clock struck half past eleven. Proserpina casually ushered her guests into the main salon, where an imposing Christmas tree rose, its branches sagging from the heaps of decorations piled upon them. Naturally, the men stuck together, standing to one side of the room and discussing as if the world's destiny rested upon their shoulders. Shafan stood self-importantly by his father, who was clearly the most emphatic about the women being kept away, whereas Beher and Mahrem, quickly bored by talks of politics, economy, and cigars, had wandered off. Salome and Balkis kept an eye on Ba Li Nu and Shezbeth's daughters. Sophia and Narcissa were chatting, with Scheherazade listening attentively. Ginny, seeing Draco monopolized by his uncles, started to head for the cluster of mothers.

“You knew my father, didn't you?” came a very soft, very tender voice.

Ginny slowly turned around, keeping her instincts in check, and found herself facing Izha Umayyad. She looked so much like the Tom that had been so gentle with Ginny that it hurt. A guilty bitterness swelled in her throat, quickly rinsed by a simple and fear-inducing question.

How did she know?

“It was easy to see you recognized him in me,” Izha continued, eyeing Ginny with concern.

“Are you a Legilimens or something?” Ginny snapped.

“No, but fear writes your thoughts on your face,” she said.

She took a step closer to Ginny, who was prevented from recoiling by a mixed feeling of uncertainty and decency. Nothing in Izha's words or gestures was in any way reminiscent of Tom Riddle's evil, and therefore, Ginny could not bring herself to act in such a way toward a young woman who looked, despite her parentage, like goodness made human. Izha took Ginny's hand in hers.

Peering into her eyes, Izha said, “I do not know what he did to you, but I am sorry, and ashamed of it. I just—” Her voice faltered, and when she spoke again, it was limpid like spring water. “I wouldn't want you to fear me.”

She smiled to Ginny so sweetly that for a moment, Ginny believed there was no way Izha could be related to the man who had become Voldemort. Izha walked away slowly, and Ginny, still chilled by the evidence of Tom Riddle's line living on, quelled her apprehension and caught up with Izha.

“Your… father has caused me and my family harm beyond what I thought possible,” she said calmly. “I know I cannot hold you responsible, though I can't account for the, uh… repulsion I may have displayed. Seeing him here— again, in this room tonight— living on through you, was a shock. I'm sorry it was so obvious.”

Izha turned around, that same, blissful smile inundating her entire face. She exuded peace and calm like fire does warmth.

“Mum had warned me,” Izha explained calmly. “I just didn't expect Draco's wife to have met such an evil man as my father. Mum said few people knew him when he still looked like me.”

“Yes, I just happened to be particularly unlucky.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Not your fault.”

Casually, they had exited the salon, as if speaking of such things could not be done in a room filled with children and nosy adults. Ginny could hardly believe what she was doing, and yet Izha inspired her with trust and compassion that seemed to run deeper than her terror of Tom Riddle. She was surprised to find herself seated in a secluded little room, carpeted with blue and silver like a starry night. Surprisingly, she felt safer now than she had during dinner, what with Cyrus' breath constantly in her neck as he spoke and his fingers touching hers more often than was necessary. Izha sat in front of her in silence, ever smiling, peering into Ginny's eyes in a way that reminded a lot of Molly.

“So how did your mother and him—“

“Mum was at some friends' summer house in Albania,” Izha said. “I think they met at a dinner given in his honor. He had managed to rid the town of a werewolf, I think. Fenir, Fren, or something, was his name. Mum told me she fell under his charm immediately—“

Like so many others… Wonder how many innocent young girls he managed to charm…

“And apparently, it was reciprocal.”

“You know, I don't mean to be rude, but with Tom—“

Izha waved the objection calmly, without losing the air of bliss that floated about her.

“He asked her to marry him.”

Ginny's eyes widened in disbelief.

“But, Tom, I've only known you for a month!” Haiwa said uncertainly, pushing a strand of her wavy hair away from her face.

“I've only known you for a month as well, and I'm still here, asking you to marry me,” Tom retorted sharply. Though he was clearly taken aback by her reaction, the gentleness that imbued every inch of her kept him in check.

“Well, I… I don't know what our parents would say and we—“

“I care little for your parents' approval, mine are dead, and this is between you and me alone.”

“I know,” Haiwa went on, putting her hand on his face, and Tom pressed his own hand on hers passionately, “but it really is too soon.”

A spark of pitch-black anger swelled in his already dark eyes while his fingers tightened around her small hand. Oblivious to the pain he was inflicting, Haiwa looked at him fondly.

“I could find a job here,” she suggested. “Stay around for a while. And if in the end you still want to marry me—“

“I want to marry you now, and I will want to marry you a month, a year, a decennia from now,” Tom said solemnly. Though his words sounded grave for the situation, anyone who knew Tom well could have told that he meant them. Few would ever admit, however, to knowing Tom Riddle well, if at all.

“So let's try this. I'll remain in Eltvo, working, or maybe studying, and then we'll see. Can you wait for me?” Haiwa said calmly.

Tom looked at her possessively, contemplating for a second the idea of forcing her to stay with him forever. An alien and unexpected feeling prevented him from menacing Haiwa, something he would have resorted to had she been anyone else and had he felt any other way toward her.

“Yes,” he gritted out. “Will you at least be with me? Live with me?”

She shook her head, an apologetic smile on her lips, one he longed to erase with a kiss.

“My family wouldn't take it well if I lived with a man.”

Tom nodded slowly, his teeth clenched and pools of shadows looming around his eyes.

“As you wish. I love you,” he said coldly, and pulling such a truth from his twisted self hurt him. Caring for her was painful. Not having her was painful. Respecting her will was becoming increasingly hard. Haiwa beamed, a sight which immediately healed the wound his confession had caused.

“I think I do, too,” she said, throwing her arms around his neck.

“So she married him?” Ginny asked, shocked.

Izha shook her head, and a faint shadow of sadness momentarily flew across her face. Her birthmark glared, black against her milk-white skin.

“Dad kept putting pressure on her to marry him. She said sometimes he scared her. At the same time, Grandmother and Grandfather wanted her to come home. One night, she witnessed something he hadn't meant for her to see. Mum never told me what it was; she just said it was evil beyond anything she hoped I would ever run elbows with. In any case, she was horrified and ran away.”

“Oh, no,” Ginny whispered, imagining what Tom's reaction must have been and forgetting that she had lived until this day.

“He caught up with her, of course. Threatened her family and those she loved with torture and death if she refused to come back to him.”

“Stay back, Tom!” Haiwa screamed, haggard with horror and exhaustion.

“Haiwa,” he growled. His eyes, stained with red, narrowed dangerously.

“How could you? You—you disgust me,” she panted. “Now get away from me or I will not be alive by the time you reach me.”

The young woman held a sickle-shaped knife against her throat.

“Don't do anything silly,” Tom said shrilly, his voice was suddenly tense. “Put the knife down, and come with me.” She shook her head. “Come with me, Haiwa, or your family—“

“Leave us alone! Leave me alone!”

Against the knife's blade, blood trickled. Tom made a step toward Haiwa.

“By the child of yours I bear, Tom, one more step and I will slit my throat.”

“Dad knew Mum well enough to understand that she would do it. Maybe it's the fact that she would rather kill her unborn child than go back to him, though there was nothing she wanted more than a baby… He stepped back.”

“In the years to come, look for me, Haiwa. Watch and listen, and know that every death caused by Lord Voldemort is a spot of blood on your hands. I loved you.”

“So she went home, and that's how I came to be. Me and my birthmark that started out as a few black freckles but that darkened and took a shape as my Dad kept causing trouble. Mum quickly figured out that every freckle was a person he killed.”

“Then seven of those spots on your cheek are all that's left of my family.”

Izha blanched.

“Seven?”

Ginny nodded sadly. Tears welled up in Izha's eyes, looking like pearls of light on her dark lashes. Suddenly, she was no longer the very picture of goodness but that of sorrow. It pained Ginny to see Izha so distraught, for they were not Izha's relatives and she could not make amends for her father's madness. Overcoming at last the barriers Izha's resemblance and ties to Tom had raised, Ginny wrapped her arms around Izha and held her tight.

“It's not your fault,” she murmured soothingly, feeling herself getting teary-eyed. “It isn't your fault.”

Draco was surprised to find his cousin buried in his wife's arms and holding on to her as if her very life depended on it. Both women looked so desperately forlorn that he felt disoriented, for women in his family—namely, his mother—did not make a show of their emotions, and his girlfriends, dates, and friends with benefits had known better than to trouble him with their soap-operas. He had never seen anything like the paradoxical decorum and privacy carved in Izha and Ginevra's clinging figures. Draco stepped back from the slightly ajar door and called to an imaginary interlocutor.

“I think they went in the gold and blue salon. I'll go and get them.”

He allowed them a few seconds to reestablish their proper appearance, then casually walked into the room to find them seated, facing each other and looking perfectly prim and proper.

“There you are,” Draco said, smiling as if he hadn't seen them crying in each others' arms, for reasons he ignored but was intent on finding out, moments before.

“We were discussing our families,” Ginevra said brightly.

Izha nodded calmly, and Draco was angry to find how easily women in his family turned on him. Neither batted an eyelash as they lied—or so he assumed—, a fact that would have made him proud of the Malfoy and Ummayad's capacity to dissimulate had it not been used against him.

“It's almost midnight; everyone's getting ready and waiting for you.”

Ginny rubbed Izha's arm soothingly and got up, taking Draco's hand as he escorted her out of the boudoir. His mind, graced with an additional topic of mystery, was a whirlpool of unanswered questions. He was frowning ever so slightly when they entered the salon, a fact that escaped neither Narcissa nor Ginny's notice. The latter tenderly placed a kiss on Draco's cheek, complementing it with a loving smile when his eyes turned to her questioningly. Little did she know about what went on in his mind, for if she had, she would have been quite fearful.

The lights were dimmed in the salon, with only a few candelabras still lit beside the garlands on the fir tree. The Umayyads and Narcissa were lined in a chain around the tree with each family side by side. Draco slipped in next to Narcissa and took her hand without letting go of Ginny's. Izha intercalated herself between Ginny and Cyrus, giving the young woman a knowing look of pure empathy. Belial's son felt a jolt of frustration as his cousin separated him from the Ginevra's truculent figure.

“We are here tonight to reflect on what we have been given,” began Bao Fang, Shezbeth and Ba Li Nu's last daughter, also the youngest of the family. “This year, as the past ones, has granted us bounties beyond what most people obtain in a lifetime. In this day where Christians celebrate the venue of their savior, we celebrate the venue of peace in the Wizarding world, hoping that, with time, it may also breed forgiveness, understanding, and generosity. We must be grateful for what we have.”

“We must be grateful for what we have,” they all repeated, and Ginny, mesmerized by the solemnity and depth of the little girl's words, understood that she had learned them as part of a ritual.

“We must give back as we have received.”

“We must give back as we have received.”

“To our parents, family, friends, and strangers in need.”

“To our parents, family, friends, and strangers in need.”

Ginny wondered to which extent the Umayyad actually followed their preaching, though it appeared that in human history, disparity between words and actions had always been frequent.

“For our children to grow in a world as bountiful as ours.”

“For our children to grow in a world as bountiful as ours.”

As the chorus repeated the final sentence, a shower of minuscule stars fell from the ceiling, covering the entire room with a soft sheen of gold. When it vanished, there were mounds of presents by the fir tree, on the chairs, sofas, tables, and consoles. They shone red, green, blue, silver, and gold on the otherwise sober, wooden furniture. The children, looking very dignified, threw themselves at their pile of presents. Ginny had barely found hers when Yu-Shui could be heard squealing delightedly about her new expandable doll-house. Draco's pile was sandwiched between his wife's and his mother's piles. He delicately picked up the top package while Narcissa sat on a chair and began opening her presents. Ginny had plopped herself on the floor, and the pile of presents rose above her head, a fact that did not appear to bother her as she grabbed the bottom package and watched the pile tumble down with a childish grin. Draco shook his head.

Ginny began understanding the hints when enchanted teddy-bears and baby's clothing supplemented the wood and mother-of-pearl cradle. She maintained a bright smile as she unraveled a pair of tiny mittens, scarf, and hat of Yeti wool, though at the pit of her stomach, an emptiness grew. As much as she disliked certain members of Draco's family, she knew how eager her own had been to welcome new children, and she smothered a feeling of guilt at the thought that she was purposefully misleading them. She would not bear Draco's child and, in fact, she might not be his wife in a few months, or years, depending on the time it took her to adequately sabotage his reputation and finances—basically, his life. Ginny failed to realize that in the process she was also messing with what Malfoys rarely gave or suffered from: their heart.

“Oh, wow,” she murmured when a stream of pearls trickled from the black velvet box she had opened.

Though the pearls were small and irregular, they glowed smoothly in the half-lit room, looking very much like snow showers falling from Ginny's hand. Narcissa, who held in her hand a small satchel of what looked like seeds, saw her daughter-in-law's gift and smiled. Lucius had presented her with that necklace when he had learned she was pregnant, and she was glad to see her son offering it to another woman.

“Do you like it?” Draco whispered in his wife's ear.

“It's beautiful,” Ginny replied, turning to find him squatting at her side. Her smile and obvious glee filled him with contentment, though he knew she was in for a shock and didn't completely dislike the thought of surprising her.

“Men in my family gave them to their wives when they were pregnant with their first child.”

Ginny's face fell and Draco knew that, for an instant, had he chosen to read her mind, he would have found it bare and in utter chaos. As it was, her startled eyes and half-open mouth were good enough indicators of her disbelief.

“What do you—“

“Come on,” he chided her gently, placing his large hands on her belly. “When were you going to tell me?”

“But I'm not—“

“Pregnant? It's hard to deny the evidence, isn't it?” Draco cooed in her ear.

He kissed her tenderly in the neck and on the shoulder, feeling as he did the rapid pulse of her heart. Panic oozed from her like water from damp clay. The nauseas, the moodiness, the sudden and unexpected urges for chocolate… Her barely fitting into that damned, prune dress… Ginny suddenly felt so sick and terrified she wished she could faint, but it appeared her chaotic emotions were too strong for even that to happen and grant her a few instants of oblivion. The altercation with Cyrus in the mosque suddenly felt like a rather pleasant and peaceful moment compared to what she was feeling.

“Thank you for the new fencing gear and ancient books,” he said, tracing patterns on her hips and the flesh imprisoned in the dress, “but this—” He patted her stomach. “—is the most beautiful gift you could give me.”

Draco Malfoy had never imagined himself happily wed and eagerly awaiting to become a father, much less impregnating his wife to get her to betray herself. As he said those words, however, he felt how truly he meant them, and the thought of Ginevra carrying their child made her all the more precious to him. He felt sharply how, regardless of what Blaise told him about her, he would not be able to let her go. And that, he knew, was a very dangerous fact to both her and himself.

***

Draco.

I just returned from Gringotts'. They are completely unwilling to give me any information regarding Ginevra's doings there. I think that if you asked them yourself, they would be more inclined to tell you what your wife is up to. You clearly have a better claim, and I hope it will be sufficient to push them to infringe their privacy policy.

Apparently, she's been using the Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes owl to correspond with a friend. Coincidentally, she's also been financing the shop. Completely. I suppose the Goblins will tell you where she got the money from.

Shehzin is doing well. Preparations of the wedding are going well. You'll get an invitation soon. (Or maybe not).

—Blaise

(1) “In earliest times, it was a symbol for the highest power, the sun, and its counterpart, the king. It represented power and control.” http://www.symbols.com/encyclopedia/29/291.html

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• 16. A happy couple

December, 1998

Zabini Estate, England.

“All I want to understand, Blaise, is why you were so eager to find out her identity, and now that you are pretty much a hundred percent sure about it, you don't tell Draco. It can't be so bad that if he really cares for her, he won't forgive her.”

“You can't understand… As stupid as it is, their families have hated each other for years. She's up to no good, and Draco has enough sense to know it. If I don't tell him, my oath is worthless—“ He shuddered at the thought. “—but if I do tell him, some unsuspecting fisherman might find the cadaver of Lady Malfoy in his nets pretty soon.”

“Don't be so dramatic.”

“You don't know Draco.”

“From what I've seen, he's composed, well-educated, and would never stain his hands with his wife's blood.”

“Like I said. He's proved he could do it before.”

Shehzin lifted her head from where it rested on the pillow. Blaise's body appeared particularly dark against the snake formed by the intertwined sheets. Shehzin, lying next to him, was all curves and softness like a peach.

“He's killed his wife before?”

Blaise tenderly stroked her forehead.

“No, silly. He proved that he was more ruthless than we expected. More conniving. Basically, more than a little rich, spoiled brat.”

“So you're not going to tell him.”

“Not yet, no. I wish there was a way I could warn her, but I owe Draco much more.”

“Let's just hope he doesn't find out too soon, then.”

“Knowing him, he's already got a plan set in motion, and what I tell him will only increase his eagerness to make her cross herself.”

“So how did her prove he was more than a daddy's boy?” Shehzin asked.

Blaise pulled her close to him and didn't answer.

***

Malfoy Manor, England.

Ginny watched as Narcissa buried the seeds she had received for Christmas in milk-saturated, shredded silk. They were in the greenhouse that shone green and blue in the light of glass-and-plant-diffused winter.

“The first seedlings should come out in a about a week,” Ginny explained.

“I can't wait to see what they are,” Narcissa said, a glimmer of curiosity shining in her eyes. She wasn't accustomed to being surprised, and much less feeling happy about it, but her recovery had left her with an appetite for life she hadn't experienced since Lucius' death.

Ginny nodded gently, smiling in a somewhat strained manner. There were dark circles rimming her eyes and she felt tired, trapped. Draco had left for a three-day long seminar a few days after their return, leaving Ginny to deal with the weight of her discovery. A spell had rapidly confirmed her husband's suspicions, thereby fulfilling her worst fear. She had sent a frantic note to Hermione but had yet to hear from the witch who, she expected, was spending Christmas with her family and did not wish to be bothered by anything, magical or otherwise.

What went wrong? She asked herself, not for the first time, as Narcissa delicately attacked one of her orchids' pistils with a scalpel. Hermione said that spell was foolproof, and I always, always, cast it. Damn the Prewett fertility!

She was, however, beyond actively resenting her ancestry for facilitating an embryo's occupation of her womb. There were few things, other than Harry Potter and the death of Voldemort, that she had ever wanted as much as revenge against Draco Malfoy, but one of these things was a child. The one she now bore put her in a very precarious situation.

“But Mummy, where is Daddy?” “Daddy is no longer here because Mummy drove him to suicide in an attempt to punish him for murdering Grandma and Grandpa and all your uncles and unborn cousins.” Dear Merlin, there is no way I can have that baby and stick to the plan. I have to go see Hermione. She'll know what to do.

“Are you listening, dear?”

“Huh? I'm sorry, I was lost in thought,” Ginny said, snapping out of her reverie.

“Of course,” Narcissa said, and flashed her a beatific smile. “I used to do that when I was pregnant with Draco.” Ginny winced. “Do you think I should mix the Terpsichore orchid with Mallowsweet or Mandrakes?”

“I suppose you could get singing Mandrakes… That's definitely an alluring idea.”

“It is, isn't it?” Narcissa beamed. “Though you shouldn't be in the room when I do it, because Mandrake seeds radiate ultrasounds and I'm not sure that would be good for the baby.”

Ginny grimaced as pleasantly as possible but nodded.

“You know, I was thinking,” Narcissa went on as Ginny wrapped the shawl Narcissa had offered her around her shoulders. “You should take a week off to rest, maybe after Blaise and that young woman's wedding. This…” She made a fluttery gesture with the hand that didn't hold the spade. “This life isn't particularly becoming for a pregnant woman.” Ginny tried not to snigger, wondering what Narcissa would have thought of Molly's hectic existence as a mother. “Besides, Draco is a dear, but he is sometimes hard to live with. And what with you having the baby, he's been fussing and worrying so much, and I'm not sure it's good for you.”

Ginny raised an eyebrow. Draco fussing and worrying? He certainly didn't let it on much, leaving for his usual seminars and taking her to business dinners as he always had, though there were moments when she caught a soft glance directed to her belly. Somehow the thought of Draco as an attentive father was infinitely more worrisome than that of a lover, or husband—you could get away from those, whereas the father of your child remained the father of your child. Ginny sighed, sensing a new wave of conflicting emotions lapping her mind, and shut them out, then walked out of the room. Narcissa cast her a loving glance, then drew an incision in the Mandrake roots.

***

Diagon Alley, London.

Draco slammed his fists on the desk and glared darkly at the goblin facing him.

“So what you mean to tell me is that you won't reveal what Lady Malfoy—my wife—came here to do?”

“Yes, Lord Malfoy, that is precisely what I mean to tell you.”

“You do understand, of course, that our vaults make up twenty percent of Gringotts' capital—“

“Seventeen point three percent, actually, as of recent incidents.”

Draco placidly acknowledged the blow.

“—and that you are not willing to disclose what my own wife was doing in my vault?”

“Please, don't misunderstand me, Lord Malfoy. She did not visit your vault.”

That revelation came like a cold shower upon Draco's shoulders. If Ginevra came, as he had been told, from a poor, Bulgarian family, there was no way she could have obtained an account here at Gringotts.

But did she ever actually say she was from a Bulgarian family?

He would have to ask Narcissa about that, though he had the increasing feeling that Ginevra didn't lie outright—she just let people assume things that weren't true. The goblin eyed him levelly, apparently used to such outbursts from his clients.

“Very well,” Draco snapped. “Know that your lack of, ah—cooperation will be remembered.”

“I have no doubt it will, Lord Malfoy,” the goblin said, nodding, nonplussed.

Draco stormed out of the cabinet, seething. He paused in the empty corridor to organize his thoughts and regain his composure. Once the impassible mask of condescension and nobility had been slipped into place, he started heading for the exit. A small, black, and gnarled figure appeared at his side.

“Lord Malfoy,” it wheezed, “I accompanied Lady Malfoy to the two vaults.”

Draco kept walking, knowing that the goblin would look for anonymity in the crowd if he was about to disclose a secret. He cast him a quick glance and found himself peering into Virgryph's alert, blue eyes.

“I'm listening.”

Virgryph remained silent, and Draco fought not to lunge at him, pin him against a well, and extort the information from him right there and then.

“What are your terms?” he gritted out.

“A dragon to guard my savings.”

“Done.”

“The Potter and Weasley vaults.”

And with that, the black goblin was gone. Draco walked on, though the two names given to him rang in his head like death bells. The fact that he had grown up scorning them and trying to shame and defeat their bearers was nothing compared to the bottomless guilt he associated with the latter. “The ancient and pure-blooded Weasley family, eradicated by a single Death-Eater attack!” “Potter mourns: his adoptive family little more than a pile of smoking ashes.” Draco could recite a dozen more titles, though none was gruesome enough to properly assess what had been done that night. “Potter and Weasley”, “Potter and Weasley”… Why was there something missing?

Granger! Surely I couldn't have married—no, the spells would have traced her filthy blood. Draco felt an insignificant relief course through him. And the wedding ceremony would have dispelled a Polyjuice Potion's effects. But if she isn't Granger, then who else could have access to those vaults?

Draco stepped out of Gringotts, more determined than ever to unmask Ginevra, now convinced as Blaise had been that she had been meddling with his affairs. Beyond the anger and additional proof of her double-sidedness caused him, the revelation that from the beginning she had been fooling him, acting and lying as he fell for her, instilled emptiness and cold in his every fiber.

***

Zabini Estate, England.

The Zabini estate sprawled before the guests' eyes, coated with a thick layer of snow. The fir trees' branches and arches of ice leading to the manor were heavy with white crystals. Night had just fallen, adding to the silver of snow that of stars and the crisp blue of winter nights. Ginny pushed back the fur hat from her eyes and gazed in wonderment at Shehzin's new home. Draco, at her side, led her toward the manor, smirking at how plainly emotions showed on her face.

“Draco, Ginevra, thank you for coming,” Catalina Zabini greeted them at the door. She wore a golden dress that fit her like a glove, and she did not look her age at all.

Behind her, Horst and Serafina were greeting the Prewetts; Serafina gave Ginny a look of condensed hatred, which she ignored, marveling at how immature the young woman was. She peered around, looking for familiar and friendly faces, but wasn't surprised to get a glimpse of Pansy Parkinson, Vivian Silverspring, and Georgiana Diggory having a chat. Not feeling like walking over, she clung to Draco.

“Stay with me?” she asked.

He was surprised by her request and nodded imperceptibly. As they walked around the room and were accosted by different wizards, they remained together rather than heading off toward their distinct groups of friends or partners. They ran into Telemacchus Clearwater and Padma Patil, who expressed repeated enthusiasm in having them over for dinner. Penelope Clearwater walked over and, having introduced herself, added her supplications to her brother's without a second look for Ginny. It was this that prompted Ginny to accept the invitation, as she realized at last that if Neville hadn't recognized her without Hermione's confession, and that Oliver Wood still hadn't figured out who she was, then few people would claim that she was the supposedly dead Ginny Weasley.

At last, the guests were ushered to the garden, where an altar and circles of chairs had been placed. Above them rose ice stalagmites, forming, as in a cathedral, a frail and shining cone of light. Draco and Ginny were placed in the first row, next to the Zabini family. At the other side of the isle sat Shehzin's parents and siblings, looking dignified and somewhat happier than could have been expected from their first reaction to the wedding. Blaise stood by the altar, beaming, though a twitch at the corner of his lips revealed how nervous he was. Conversations dimmed when a mellifluous music floated in the air. Shehzin made her appearance and, very slowly, began to walk down the alley.

Ginny was amazed at how stunningly beautiful the witch looked in white. Her dress was, of course, a work of art to itself, and yet it would have been little more than white silk on anyone but Shehzin. She, too, smiled that generous and bubbling smile of hers that made her look edible. Draco observed the scene, remembering how he had made it possible, and knowing full well the price the happy couple would have to pay for their being here, together, that night. A glance to Ginny's ecstatic smile made him feel weak in the knees, and he hated himself for that.

“Welcome, wizards and witches, to the celebration of the union between Blaise Zabini and Shehzin Mohammad,” began the minister in a quaking voice.

The guests braced themselves for the long lecture, finding solace in perusal of the happy couple. Ginny let her mind wander.

“Oh come on, Harry,” Ginny laughs. “Do you want to wait for marriage or something?”

Lying atop her naked body, he smiles wistfully. He lets his hand drift in her auburn hair.

“It's just that I can't make you any promises…”

From the trees around them floats the music and laughter of Bill's wedding. Sometimes a flash of warm light pierces into the clearing where Harry and Ginny have found refuge.

“I don't want any promises,” she retorts, calmly. “In times like these, we can't cling on to words. Only actions matter. And whatever happens to either of us when your quest for the Horcruxes resumes, I want this to help us remember what we are, what we were to each other.”

Harry looks into her eyes of amber and honey, so strong and soft at the same time. His determined, little Ginny, asking for what she wants and bent on obtaining it, regardless of the consequences. He nods, feeling relieved in his mind by her understanding of the situation, and in his body for her offering what he has longed for ever since their first kiss.

They resume their kissing, her arms wrapping around his narrow but muscular shoulders, his hands hungrily kneading her flesh. She responds to him easily as the pleasure churning in her dictates the adequate movements. He groans, cradled in her hips, and slips into her.

“Oh,” she says, her mouth open in surprise, her eyes wide with the sudden and sharp pain.

Harry stops moving.

“It's okay,” he murmurs, and she nods, but when he pushes again, the pain is like a razor blade driven through her stomach. “Shhhhhh,” Harry says. “Look at me.”

Ginny opens the eyes she closed when it began to hurt. Somehow she feels like if she closes her eyes very tightly, everything will go faster. She wants this, but she wants this to be over.

“Trust me,” he says, peering meaningfully into her eyes.

He rotates his hips slowly, easing himself into her as gently as his body permits him, this body that longs to push and plunge like a haywire machine. The sensation of her, warm and tight around him, goes beyond what he could ever imagine. He sees her face relax and the absence of tears. When he thrusts into her again, she makes no sound, her face blank and neutral.

“Are you okay?”

Ginny nods again and smiles awkwardly, in a way she hopes will encourage him to go on. Though there is no pleasure, there is no longer pain, just the novel and interesting sensation of him inside her. Relieved to see that he doesn't hurt anymore, Harry gives free reign to his impulsions and thrusts wildly into her. Mechanically he pumps, in and out, in and out, tac tac tac, and when he collapses atop her, she remembers that Muggle thing Arthur had shown her once. A typewriter. Her first time with a man—with Harry, no less—felt deceptively like screwing a typewriter.

“Nuptaligo,” pronounced the minister, and Blaise and Shehzin's wands gleamed from the silver membrane uniting them. “I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

Applause rose from the crowd. In a second, Blaise had cast away Shehzin's veil and kissed her passionately. Clapping and laughing like a girl, Ginny watched their intense embrace, and in a moment of spontaneity, turned to Draco, wrapped her arms around him, and kissed him as if it they were the newlyweds. Surprised, he quickly chased away the turbulent thoughts coiling in his mind to give in to his wife's demanding lips. Serafina Zabini glared at them malevolently, though most of the wizards surrounding them cared little for such a public display of affection and began casting flowers of snow above Blaise and Shehzin as they walked up the aisle.

At dinner, the Malfoys were welcomed at the main table. Ginny sat across Shehzin and Draco across Blaise, in a clear mark of distinction, but whereas the women exchanged enthusiastic words with each other and their neighbors, Draco remained unusually silent and granted Blaise a few meaningful glances. Both men cast their wives equally secretive and tender looks, though in Draco's eyes lurked darker thoughts. At last dinner came to an end. Draco, seeing Ginny deep in a conversation with Shehzin and Pansy, motioned to Blaise. They headed off toward the silver-lit garden.

“Potter and Weasley,” Draco growled.

Blaise managed to place a surprised look on his stony features. He could not afford to let Draco figure out he already knew Ginevra Malfoy's identity.

“What?”

“The vaults she visited were the Potter and Weasley vaults. Now, since she is supposed to come from a poor Bulgarian family, I fail to perceive how in the world she could have gotten access to those. Care to enlighten me?”

Blaise quickly weighed the pros and cons, eventually deciding that Draco seemed too angry still for him to disclose the entire truth. If only he could hold off a few additional weeks, long enough for Draco to realize to which extent Ginevra had become a part of his life he was now trying to renounce.

“Look, mate,” he said, peering calmly in Draco's burning eyes, “all I know is that she apparently sponsors Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes and knows Neville Longbottom rather well.”

A muscle in Draco's jaw twitched and his lips pressed against each other into a thin line.

Wrong thing to say, Blaise belatedly realized.

“Is that so?” Draco asked coldly.

“Not in that way,” Blaise said. In any other situation, he would have been amused by Draco's paranoia, but as it was, it might quickly become dangerous for Ginevra. “They're friends.”

“Oh,” was all that came out from Draco's mouth, along with a venomous glare.

“Look, I need a little bit more time,” Blaise said at last. “I've asked Oliver Wood and he couldn't tell me who she was.” —Looked at me like I was crazy and poisonous, then nearly kicked me out of his apartment, in fact— “So maybe she'll end up by betraying herself—“

“I told her she was pregnant.”

“You told her she was—she's pregnant? Congratulations,” Blaise said, relieved by what he thought to be a distraction and genuinely happy for his friend. Though Malfoy had never expressed particular interest in children, the possibility of Ginevra's bearing an heir would come as good news to many wizards in England.

“Thank you,” Draco retorted, sounding anything but grateful. “I want you to have her followed at all times. Given how she took the news, she's bound to do something stupid soon.”

“Oh. She wasn't happy?”

Draco laughed mirthlessly.

“She's been using Contraceptio, remember? I'd say getting pregnant was on her `Not-to-do' list, along with `get along with Serafina' and `actually care for Draco'.”

Blaise easily caught the bitterness in his voice. Though it didn't surprise him, as he had had many occasions to witness Draco's attachment to his wife, Lord Malfoy's implied confession made him appear more vulnerable than Blaise had seen him since the end of their fifth year. Even Lucius' death had met with a stone-hearted and reasonable Draco.

“Just because she isn't who you thought she was doesn't mean she doesn't care for you.”

“I'd say that her going freely from Potter's to the Weasleys' vault is a pretty good indicator of the fact that she's planning nothing good.”

There was such steel and harshness in Draco's words that Blaise could only nod. He and Shehzin would have to find a way to make both Ginevra and Draco come to terms—and soon. They made their way back toward the party, where champagne flowed and laughter was growing increasingly loud. Blaise went to join Shehzin in making small talk with the Wizarding aristocracy. Draco eventually found Ginny sitting on the balcony's banister, peering at the frozen grounds, lost in thought. She had excused herself from a conversation following Pansy's particularly disparaging remark toward Muggle-borns, a remark she felt she could not counter with sufficient aloofness and had, therefore chosen to shun. Her shoulders and bare arms emerged from the caramel dress she wore, looking round and plump like a ripe fruit. Draco walked over to Ginny and placed his warm hands on her shoulders.

“Feeling lonely?” he asked.

“Not anymore.”

The effortlessness with which her answer came lacerated Draco's restraint. Torn between what he now knew about her and how she behaved with him, he couldn't help but feel that she must have been a marvelous actress to respond so spontaneously to him. And yet, as he well knew, wizards with an agenda or ulterior motives could easily become actors.

“Do you want to go home?” Draco offered, attributing to her condition the need for rest—he would never have suggested they leave so early otherwise.

“Not really,” Ginny answered dreamily. “I'm just… not in the mood for parties, I suppose. And the noise, the movement, the warmth—they're making me uncomfortable, I don't know why.”

Draco thought for a few seconds and then, unexpectedly—

“Do you want to go for a walk?”

She turned to him, her eyes filled with the surrounding light and looking more like silver than gold. A serene smile crept on her lips.

“That's a great idea.” She looked at her stilettos and dress. “But I doubt I'm equipped for such an occasion.”

Draco eyed her disdainfully, then, with an elegant wave of his wand, transfigured her shoes into fur-lined boots and her dress into skin-tight pants and a sweater. A similar gesture adapted his clothes for a walk in the snow. He lifted an eyebrow at her look of disbelief.

“So, are we going, or do you plan on waiting for Hell to freeze?”

“No, no,” she said, laughing, “it's cold enough as it is. Come, before people see us.”

Grabbing his hand, she pulled him toward one of the garden's lesser lit alleys. She giggled musically, and Draco felt oddly proud to have snatched her from her gloomy musings. The path they chose was barely wide enough to accommodate two people, and the snow on its borders reached knee-height. Right and left, fir trees stretched their scented branches toward their faces. Draco patiently pushed each branch back to let Ginny advance. They walked on in silence, the brushing of the wind in the trees slowly smothering noises from the party.

“Are you warm enough?” Draco asked.

Ginny nodded but huddled closer to him. A few moments later, snow flurries began falling in slow motion, spotting their field of vision with small, white dots.

“It's snowing!” Ginny gleefully announced.

“Brilliant deduction.”

“Prat.”

“Shrew.”

They grinned evilly at each other. In passing a branch weighed down by snow, Ginny filled her hand with iced crystals and crunched them into a small and compact ball. It had always been hard to get close enough to her brothers to slip them into their necks, because during the winter, they knew what to expect from their sister. Unfortunately for him, Draco was utterly unwarned and fell too easily in Ginny's trap. She wrapped her arm around his neck, not surprised by the promptness with which he responded and pulled her firmly to him. Eyes half closed, he dipped his head to kiss her—only to snap it back up when a small pack of ice slid out of his wife's hand and into his neck. He groaned and made to retaliate, but she was already running ahead of him, laughing madly.

There wasn't enough snow to hinder their progress, but the thin film of white on the trail made running after one another a hazardous operation. Ginny made it even worse when, steering off the path, she tried to escape from him in the thick snow. Draco, having grown up to track down Blaise, Pansy, and his other friends in his father's woods, quickly found a sure footing and caught up with Ginny in a few measured strides.

“Ah,” she exclaimed between peals of laughter as his arms closed around her.

“Aren't you quite the fiendish creature…? Attacking an innocent, defenseless man like me…”

Ginny sniggered, and wriggling like a fish to get out of his grip, managed to puff out, “Defenseless? Please.”

Draco let her go for an instant, in a gesture that cats playing with a mouse often have. Surprised, she nearly lost her balance but began moving away again. He gave her a few seconds of advance, then pounced. He lunged at her. She squealed. He caught her in his arms and let himself fall in the snow, dragging her with him.

“No, no, no, no—aaaaahhhhh…”

She landed on top of him. Her head on his chest, she could feel his heart's rapid beating and the warmth exuding from him.

“Mister Malfoy,” she sniggered, “that wasn't very smart of you… because I'm still dry and you're not!”

Ginny would have punctuated that statement with a snicker, but before she could realize it wasn't very smart of her to say such a thing, Draco rolled her off him and flat on her back in the snow. The cold seeped into her neck. Draco hoisted himself above her and smirked.

“You were saying?”

“I hate you.”

“Sure you do,” he retorted, nibbling her lower lip.

She moaned, a sound which often sounded more like a hum than anything else. Instinctively, his hips ground into hers, a movement she encouraged by enfolding him between her legs. Around them, the snow melted slowly to form an interestingly shaped angel. Completely unaware of their surroundings, Ginny began unzipping Draco's jacket, while he ran his hands under her sweater and cupped his palms around her engorged breasts. Suddenly, there was a loud fizzing noise, followed by a bright, yellow light and a bang.

“Fireworks!” Ginny exclaimed against Draco's mouth, immediately trying to push him off her.

He sighed and complied with her unspoken demand. Keeping a hold of her hand, he rested on his back next to her as a second shriek turned into a series of red wheels revolved across the sky, sending flames in all directions. Then a shot of green split the night in half, coiling and undulating until its wings and claws became visible and an emerald dragon roamed the skies. Ginny's face shone red, green, then blue, and gold, and many other colors, but all Draco cared about was the look of utter bliss plastered on her features. Every time a firecracker snapped or a flower of light blossomed Ginny squeezed Draco's hand.

The Potter and Weasley vaults… Potter and Weasley… Potter and Weasley…

The volume of sound and light involved in the fireworks suddenly increased as the night turned almost bright with all the colorful flames involved. Ginny straddled Draco, grinning at his wince of pleasured surprise.

Lowering her face to is, she murmured against his lips, “Happy New Year!”

“And happy it is indeed,” he retorted smugly, placing his hands in the small of her back.

She rolled her eyes and kissed him, delighting in the hunger with which his lips met hers. He pulled her to him and rotated his hips slowly so that she ground against him. The hisses of the fireworks died out, leaving the snow, fir trees, and silence to witness their whispers and tender kisses.

-->

• 17. The Weasley lineage

January, 1999

Malfoy Manor, England.

“Even you, Mother, are involved in this rebellion against me?”

“Oh, come now, Draco, don't be so dramatic. A week in Paris will do her a lot of good. She needs the rest, and Merlin knows you're not giving her any.”

“What do you—“

“Parties, receptions, inaugurations galore. Not to mention your evening pastimes.”

“Mother…”

“Yes, well, regardless of how you two spend your nights, better one bird in hand than two in the bush, as they say, so if you could try to keep my future granddaughter alive before you try to conceive another—“

“Grandson.”

“Whichever, dear, whichever. I really think you should let her—“

“Ginevra is not going to Paris alone, and that's final.”

***

London, England.

“Ginevra will be spending next week in Paris,” Draco gritted out. “I want her followed, and I want a report of her every single doing. Do you think you can take care of this, or would you rather delegate?”

Blaise sat across Malfoy's desk, playing idly with a paper cutter.

“Don't worry, I'm on it. If she meets a bloke or several there, you'll be the first to know.”

He refrained from smirking when he saw the muscle that twitched in Draco's jaw. If looks could kill, Shehzin would have been one of the youngest widows in England.

***

Paris, France.

Ginny Apparated in front of the Fontaine Saint Michel. It was dark, but there were lights dancing everywhere. Startled, she looked around for the person that was supposed to show her to her apartment. Ginny wondered whether the jeans and blazer she had hastily matched up were earning her surprised looks from surrounding Muggles, but a little tap on her shoulder interrupted her thoughts. A woman in her midforties with striped yellow and purple robes stared at her from behind disk-shaped glasses.

“Lady Malfoy?” the woman said, the hint of an accent in her voice.

“Yes,” Ginny acknowledged. “Hello.”

“Isabelle Guerin, a votre service. The apartment Lord Malfoy obtained for you is five minutes away, but I figured you might want to see a little bit of the quartier Saint Michel.”

“Certainly.”

Isabelle Guerin made her way toward a rather populated avenue. People brushed past Ginny without a second look at her clothes, though several men cast her appreciative glances—a fact that didn't seem to exasperate the woman at their arm when there was one. She wondered if perhaps she should have put something under her blazer, though she couldn't recall her father mentioning anything about that.

“This is the Boulevard Saint Michel. There are many excellent Muggle stores with interesting clothing. Perhaps you'll want to bring some back to your friends. The stores with yellow windowpanes sell books, some of them for amazing prices. At night, students flock the stands and buy books for less than a euro each—that's about two Sickles. Many like to just hang about, or go at the Ile Saint Louis, which is further down the Seine.”

Ginny nodded, observing with interest the wrought iron balconies and gray facades of the buildings. Window boxes filled with geraniums were a frequent view, and the washed-away green lamppost appeared somewhat archaic next to buses and cars. The precise and sharp consonances of French resounded everywhere.

“Here we are,” Isabelle said, stopping right at the limit between two bookstores. “Six-cent soixante-six(1), Boulevard Saint Germain.” A peach colored house, clad with the typical balcony and geranium, appeared. “Superstition keeps Muggles from asking,” she observed connivingly.

Ginny merely nodded, pretending she had understood what Isabelle had just said, and committed the address to memory. Isabelle pushed open the wooden door, and they entered an inner courtyard paved with old stones. There was a red and blue banner of the “Paris Princes” with a Snitch hanging from one window, and from one balcony unfurled tentacles that looked very much like they belonged to a Flitterbloom.

“Most of the residents are on vacation,” Isabelle went on, “but I told the remaining ones you were coming so you will not be disturbed. The Malfoy name commands respect far beyond England's borders.”

“How comforting,” Ginny said glumly.

They entered the house. The elder woman opened the first door on the left and stepped aside. A small corridor gave way to a large, well-lit living room. A rattan mat covered the floor, and the furniture was of a dark, red wood. Cactuses and palm trees bloomed in every corner. There were copper statuettes, vases, and chiseled plates scattered about the room.

“It's lovely,” Ginny said primly, as befitted a Malfoy.

“The kitchen is over there, and the bedroom has its own bathroom, of course. I'll leave the keys here,” Isabelle said, placing them on a coffee table. “If you need anything, there is Floo powder on the chimney. I hope you will enjoy Paris.”

“Thank you. Goodbye.”

“Au revoir.”

Isabelle left Ginny to her newfound pied-a-terre. Ginny quickly went to the window and opened it wide, seeing below her the noisy Boulevard Saint Germain and beyond, the Seine and Notre Dame. For a second she contemplated going out and mingling with the crowd, but a burst of fatigue decided her against it. She found the bedroom to be welcoming, all in shades of white and apple-green with wrought iron furniture. The bed, in particular, looked like a large, square-shaped cloud, on which she was very satisfied to fall once she had taken a quick shower. There came a low, rumbling sound from outside, and once in a while, flashes of light crossed the walls. It took a while for Ginny to fall asleep, for she missed being held by Draco and, for the first time in months, she felt extremely vulnerable.

The following morning, the sunlight reverberated on the white walls and sheets woke Ginny up. She turned to the pillow next to hers but found neither Draco, nor the hollow usually left by his head on the pillow, nor a flower or note he sometimes left. The feeling of emptiness that tugged at her made her angry with herself.

Get a grip, you fool. You've been indulging yourself too much lately. Stop caring for him. Be prepared to ditch the baby.

The harshness of her thoughts made her wince.

Ditch the baby? Surely there has to be some other way.

She pulled out the black, turtleneck dress, thick tights and boots she had ordered—secretly, of course—from a Muggle agency. The knee-length coat and hat she chose to wear with them, yellow like marigolds, made her smile when she slipped them on. She looked like a bee, but people were less likely to stare than if she wore turquoise robes. Once Ginny was outside, she let the crisp and cool air slap her, smelling of unshed rain and river lapping old stone. She walked along the banks, peering at the postcards and posters of French cancan, black cats, and Josephine Baker. At last she reached the Musee d'Orsay and assaulted it, sketchpad and charcoal in hand.

From the Musee d'Orsay, she moved on to the Louvre, of which she only had the time to visit the sculpture galleries before it closed. Dinner along the Champs Elysees left her with several choices: to Apparate back to the apartment, to try and take a bus or taxi, or to walk. She cast an additional warming charm on her clothing, buried her hands in her coat pockets, and ambled down the Avenue des Champs Elysees. Cars whizzed by, constantly surprising her, but the noise and commotion filled her amazed ears and eyes. Along the Rue Rivoli, the flow of passersby dwindled and she found herself walking along the street's empty arcades. More than once she got the fleeting impression of hearing steps behind her, but mostly the sources of commotion were random nightclubs and late-night restaurants.

When she reached the Ile Saint Louis, she found its banks to be colonized by groups of teenagers, wine bottle in one hand and guitar in the other. They didn't do as much as glance at her, but she got the distinct impression of being watched again. She was tired of turning around and finding no eyes on her, however, so she walked on, keeping her eyes on the oily, black surface of the Seine.

Ginny was stepping below a bridge when a hand closed around her arm. Though she winced, she had to admit she wasn't surprised. She turned to face her assailant. His face was red and granular from extensive alcohol consumption, and his clothing appeared dirty.

“Eh bien, ma jolie, on se promene, seule, dans la nuit?” (2)

She looked at him oddly and didn't reply, figuring that, regardless of the language used, she didn't feel like answering someone who stopped her so rudely.

“T'es pas très polie, dis donc. A moins que tu ne sois stupide?” (3)

Ginny recognized the sound of “stupide” as being similar to its English translation, and anger flashed across her features. She tried to shake her arm from his grip.

“Let go of me,” she ordered.

“Oho, mademoiselle eez Anglish? Je vais te montrer, moi, ce qu'on leur fait, aux Rosbifs, (4)” he snarled, upon which he pulled her to him and tried to grab her bum.

Making good use of her years of education by her brothers, she revolved to face him and slammed her knee in his groin. The man doubled over, groaning, “Putain de femelle,” but didn't release his hold on her. Angrily, he slammed her against the wall, though his movements were still unsteady from the pain she had caused. She barely had time to curl her fingers into a ball and smash it under his chin, in a move that Charlie had promised would knock out any opponent. The man fell back to the ground. Ginny gave his slumped form a disgusted look and hurried away.

That's it, I'm going to see Hermione tomorrow. I'm not in the mood for Paris, alone.

Behind her, a dark figure reached her attacker's crumpled form. Blaise, wand still in hand, distastefully nudged the man with his foot. The Frenchman moaned. Blaise gave him a good kick in the stomach, muttering, “You filthy pig. I wish I could finish you off right now…” But, as he had to follow Ginny and make sure she didn't get herself into additional trouble, he quickly followed her, wondering whether he should tell Draco about this event and risk being decapitated in the ensuing second.

***

Saint Daunes, France.

Ginny nearly Apparated on top of a mailbox she supposed had been recently installed. It was red and shiny as if it had just been waxed and stood out against the bright yellow of the sunflower covered hills. To her left, the house bathed in the limited shadows offered by a few trees. The air was rather warm, so Ginny took off her coat and immediately felt more at ease. She walked toward the old farm, eager to see Hermione for the first time in nearly a year, and found her friend seated on the stone front porch. The bushy-haired witch didn't notice her approaching, for she was bent over a bundle in her lap that monopolized all her attention.

“Oh—my—” Ginny muttered, completely floored.

Hermione was holding and feeding a little baby.

She lifted her eyes, and when she saw Ginny, a warm smile illuminated her face. She walked over to her friend and, without bothering to tuck in her breast or tear the baby from it, she introduced them to each other.

“Ginny, this is Harry Arthur Weasley. Harry, this is the Aunt Ginny I've been telling you so much about.”

Ginny stood there, staring at the little creature's contented features and its tiny hand flattened against Hermione's skin, at its unruly, orange hair and freckled face, and felt warm tears dribbling down her cheeks. In a few, shaky steps she was next to Hermione, tenderly caressing her nephew's soft hair.

“He's… he's…” Ginny began, but she was at a loss for words. “Ron's?”

Hermione threw her an outraged look.

“Of course he is! As if I could ever—with anyone else—oh, dear,” she exclaimed, and Ginny couldn't say whether it was to ward off the fresh tears in her eyes or regarding the baby's sudden gurgling noises.

Hermione pulled her little boy from her breast and placed him face down on her shoulder, then patted his back until he burped. Beaming more than she had upon learning that she was made Prefect, she motioned to Ginny to sit down.

“Blonde is, ah—an interesting color for you.”

“Don't remind me…” Ginny muttered.

Hermione reached for her wand and cast a spell at Ginny, which made her hair red and wavy again. She stared fondly at her best friend's leonine mane as she placed her son in a crib by the bench. The two women sat in silence

“Hermione, why didn't you tell me?” Ginny asked at last.

Hermione, for the first time since Ron had proposed to her, was unsure of what to say. She twisted her hands, meaning to make a stab at words, but couldn't find an explanation that would justify the sadness in Ginny's voice.

“All this time I've had a nephew and I didn't know? I can't believe you would do such a thing to me when you know you're all the family I have left!”

The moment she uttered these words, Ginny knew there was something wrong with them. Her feelings were as she had meant them, part betrayed trust and part loneliness, but she grudgingly admitted to herself that in Narcissa and Draco, especially, she had found the closest thing she could have to a family.

“I was afraid someone might find out,” Hermione blurted out at last, her cheeks pink with embarrassment.

“Yes, because I would have easily come up with `And then my nephew, who is Ron Weasley and a Mudblood's son…' in a conversation!”

Hermione winced.

“Some of them are skilled Legilimens, you know,” she snapped back as tears pooled in her eyes. “And I just didn't know what to do! When I found out, at first, it was like a little bit of Ron had been given back to me. But then my baby was born, and all I could think of was how they would find us and take him away from me, or kill him! I panicked, and I'm sorry, but I was so afraid—I couldn't think anymore.”

The tears trickled down her face as they had on Ginny's cheeks moments earlier, and Ginny felt Hermione's irrational fear and loneliness so strongly, when faced with such a possibility, that she took the other witch into her arms. Soon they were both crying and hugging each other, in a way somewhat similar to when they had learned about the Burrow's destruction, though they came to find that their tears were of relief to be alive and have each other rather than sorrow.

“I'm pregnant, too,” Ginny croaked out.

“Oh, God,” was all Hermione could murmur before she pressed Ginny harder against her, and together they wept as if wracking sobs were a second language .

When they had shed their long reprieved tears and felt blissfully purged, Hermione threw a tender look at Harry Arthur. Ginny couldn't help but hope that she could some day look at her child like this.

Oh wait, she reminded herself. I'm not having any child.

“So, how long has it been?” Hermione asked.

“About two months.”

“Did you use—“

“I did, `Mione, I used it every—single—time, and believe me when I say I used it.”

Hermione blushed at the implication.

“Did Malfoy know about it?”

“Draco?” Ginny corrected her absent-mindedly. “No, I don't think so. At least, he never told me about it.”

Hermione nodded but didn't look convinced. Seeing as the only way to counter the contraception spell's effect was to cast another spell, she had a hard time imagining Malfoy was entirely unaware of his wife's doings. A pang of anxiety shot through her as she wondered if he knew anything else of their plans, but she figured Ginny would have warned her had that been the case.

“I don't know what happened, then,” Hermione said.

“What I'm more concerned about is what do I do now?”

“What do you mean?” Hermione asked, surprised.

“Do I keep it? I can't have Draco's baby and keep plotting his downfall, and I can't not have it and keep plotting his downfall. I feel as though I didn't get pregnant for the right reasons—I mean, I'm not even married to a man I love, as it's supposed to happen!—and yet the thought of getting rid of it is as painful as the thought of losing you!”

Hermione listened to Ginny's outburst patiently, understanding her feelings of incertitude and frustration.

“Leave him, then,” she offered calmly, in a subtle attempt to find out if there were things about her own feelings that Ginny didn't know about.

“What? Leave Draco?” She quickly pondered the thought. “I can't. The baby—“

“Leave him and have the baby. It isn't easy, but it certainly is well worth the hassle. You could easily find a job anywhere you want to live.”

Ginny eyed her uncertainly, clearly unhappy with her suggestion. This confirmed Hermione's suspicion that her friend was growing attached to Malfoy, a being she found repulsive and monstrous beyond belief, though time increasingly pushed her to move away and forget his crimes. Unfortunately, Ginny now appeared to be entangled in their plot to make him pay for his deeds, and Hermione couldn't help but feel terribly guilty for the toll events might take on the younger woman.

“If I have his baby, I can never leave him, can I?” Ginny asked in a very small voice.

A knot formed in Hermione's throat.

“I don't think so. I… I am so sorry,” she breathed out. “This whole thing was my idea, and I shouldn't have gotten you involved in it! And now you're pregnant and I feel so, so bad,” she whispered.

“Don't,” Ginny said, her voice low but calm. “I agreed to help you. Now I just have to figure out what to do. I can't let you keep making decisions for me now, can I?” she asked, smiling sadly. “Look, I'll find what I have to do. In the meantime, though, I'm supposed to have a break and take care of myself—Narcissa's own words, mind you—and what better way to do that than to take care of my newly discovered nephew?”

Hermione, noticeably relieved by Ginny's handling of the situation, laughed and hugged her one last time before heading over to the cradle, from which arose the little boy's incomprehensible babble. Ginny was at his side in a second, cooing and purring about Harry Arthur's tiny fists, chocolate eyes, and adorable freckles. Hermione's son was the center of both women's worlds in the days that followed. Ginny made up for her entire family's absence by not leaving the baby's side for so much than an instant, delighted by his curious glances and a prattle that she deemed expressive and bright, despite her being unable to understand any of it. There wasn't a thing about her nephew that didn't fascinate her, and she would have told the world about him had she been able to. Hermione fed him but was strongly encouraged to leave the rest to Ginny in a way that was quite reminiscent of Molly Weasley's capacity to take over, unilaterally.

When Harry Arthur was asleep or occupied with his stuffed hippogriff, Hermione and Ginny took walks by the lake behind the house. They put together a vegetable garden, which Hermione assured would please the owners of the house who, coincidentally, happened to be her boss's family. They shared stories from Hogwarts and of their new lives, realizing how little their notes had conveyed what was going on. Ginny would hurry back to check on her nephew. They marveled at Neville's coming-of-age and newfound self-assurance; they laughed about his obvious infatuation with Luna. They spoke of Wood's carrier as a Quidditch player, of Padma Patil's as Minister of Magic, of Dean Thomas's as painter, of friends forced to live as Muggles or emigrate, of others abiding by the rules and becoming part of the pure-blood society.

The night before Ginny had planned to return to Paris, the witches had dinner and put Harry Arthur to bed, as was customary. They sat at the long, coarse, wooden table, sipping tisane and listening to the wind outside. The shutters occasionally beat against the walls, giving rhythm to the evening with sharp knocks. Wavering flames danced in the domes of the oil lamps.

“So what are you going to do?” Hermione asked.

“I don't know,” Ginny said softly, looking at her fingers. Her wedding band glistened. “I think I… I… I need more time…”

Though Hermione had no idea time for what exactly, she got up and walked to the closest cabinet. From one of its drawers she pulled out a small sachet, then headed back for the table and placed it before Ginny.

“I don't want to be the one giving you every single mean to not have a child,” she said. “First `Contraceptio', and now this… I just want you to have as many options as possible, because in dragging you into this plan, I forced you to take a path I could not have taken myself. I'm just trying to make up for what I've done. Regardless of what you choose to do, however, I hope it will be for the best, and I'm sure you are big enough to make your own decisions wisely.”

Ginny gave her a sad, weary smile and pocketed the sachet.

“Will it look natural?”

Hermione nodded. The old clock by the chimney struck eleven, the coppery sound resonating throughout the room with each blow. The two women felt at peace.

“Hermione?”

“Yes.”

“You never told me about the last battle. I know what they said in the newspapers wasn't true, but…”

It was Hermione's turn to appear enthralled with her hands. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and nodded slowly.

“After all,” she said, finishing her thoughts out loud, “you deserve to know… Just remember that people won't believe you. They are much more comfortable with the version of events that the provisional government at the time gave them.”

Ginny nodded.

“We had found and destroyed all Horcruxes thanks to Regulus Black's indications. I don't know why Voldemort—” Hermione said his name without hesitation, her voice hard and cutting like steel, “—let us do it, but he may have felt this was the only way Harry would ever dare approach him. He was wrong, of course—Harry, unlike him, would have never been foolish enough to attack him at the height of his power, without so much as a toothpick in hand.”

“That's Harry,” Ginny said affectionately.

“Yes, that's Harry. Either way, we knew that with Dumbledore dead, there was no way we could kill Voldemort. But with Sirius' help, we tricked him.”

“Sirius? But he—”

“Died? In a way, he didn't. Harry still couldn't deal with his godfather's disappearance, so I did some research on the archway in the Department of Mysteries. It was actually Bill who gave me the most important hint regarding the provenance of this arch that is, as you have probably guessed, a passage to the Otherworld. He saw a drawing I had made and said that many of the tombs he had visited in Egypt bore similar depictions of doors. He even got me some very ancient scrolls.”

Ginny, though intrigued by these revelations from which she had been kept away, wondered how this was relevant. Trust Hermione to blame Voldemort's death on scrolls my brother got her.

“Anubis' Gates is what Sirius fell through. As you know, the dead have a tremendous power—in a way they have to account for living wizards' energy—and the Gates are one of the several, difficult ways to harness part of that power.”

“Please don't tell me you had the time to plot Voldemort's downfall and crack the mystery of Anubis' gates, which I suppose the Unspeakables have been working on for hundreds of years,” Ginny said more aggressively than she would have wanted, though Hermione's didactic voice was getting on her nerves.

“I didn't, but the Unspeakables did. It was a very timely discovery, I must say—one that Marla Meadows, one of the Order's most secretive recruits and part of the team that worked on the Gates, was only too eager to disclose. She's the one who, putting her entire career at stake, stole that black, flapping curtain—do you remember it?”

“Of course I remember it. Why did she steal it?”

“Because that was what made Anubis' Gates the receptacle of the power. Supposedly, the cloth is made of Nephthys' hair—she's an Egyptian goddess—which was thought to shroud the bodies of the dead. Well, regardless of the mythology behind it all, the veil itself is like death made object. Imagine the power this involves!”

“So, did you come up with a weapon? Strangle Voldemort with the veil?” Ginny asked darkly.

Hermione was stunned by the harshness of her words, though perhaps she would have understood it had she thought how much Ginny would have wanted to be a part of this, of the research, of the fact, of her family and her loved ones' last instants.

“No, we tricked him with it.”

“What?”

Night has fallen early. The fortress of Azkaban is swiftly enshrouded in black clouds that coil around it like a salamander. The sea crashes in explosions of salty water against the stone, seeping between the dark rocks, then withdrawing to prepare a second assault. Hermione casts several charms to light up the different fires scattered on the towers, walls, and in the central courtyard. Shadows of wizards walk about, wand in hand, while Remus Lupin reinforces the wards around the castle.

Suddenly, a blue lightning tears the sky. Azkaban trembles in its wake as the protective dome around it shatters.

“They're here,” Lupin calls, nonplussed by the abrupt breaking apart of his wards.

A shrill, female scream rings through the night, shortly followed by a flash of green. From the walls come a few screams, punctuated by colored lights and explosions. Hermione throws herself in Harry's arms and hugs him, her eyes filling with tears.

“I'm scared,” she says.

“Just promise me you'll do it.”

“Harry…”

“Promise me. For Ron. For the Weasleys. For Dumb—“

“Harry…”

“Promise me. Now, Hermione. They're coming.”

She's crying in earnest now, but the resolve and hollowness in his voice fill her with an artificial sense of peace.

“I promise,” she gurgles, and he crushes her against her.

She can barely hear him murmur, “Thanks”, when the same female voice that marked the beginning of the attack roars, “They're all dummies!” Remus runs toward Harry and Hermione, his hand closed like a maw around his wand.

“They're here,” he says out of breath, knowing full well the pointlessness of such an announcement. “Do you have it?”

Harry nods. Six of the eight fires in the courtyard die out as a chill wind sweeps across the paved floor. From the darkness advances Voldemort, robes billowing like smoke around him, his Death Eater pawns assembled in a semi-circle of which he is the epicenter. Hermione, her mind frozen with fear, doesn't have the sense to find futile Voldemort's taste for dramatic entries.

“A trap, Harry Potter?” he asks silkily. “I must admit, I would have expected better from you.”

“Baby Harry thinks he has a chance?” Bellatrix Lestrange cooes, coming up at the Dark Lord's right side.

“Bellatrix,” Voldemort barks, lifting his arm in warning. She snaps her mouth shut. “This should be interesting. So, you think you're ready to fight me—again? Do you think, perhaps, you have a chance this time?”

The Death Eaters snicker. Remus is nowhere to be seen. A shadow has slipped behind Hermione, who stands to the side and somewhat behind Harry. The bespectacled man pushes the hair out of his eyes and, as if awakened by his gesture, Voldemort's red eyes bore into Harry's. His slit-like nostrils flare and he closes his eyes, sniffing around, his hands lightly feeling the air around him.

“Aha, Potter… It appears you aren't as helpless as you once were. I—sense—power.”

Harry merely stares at him, wand in hand.

“Well? What did you do? How did this—“Voldemort interrupts himself to breath in deeply again. “—otherworldly power come to rest on your frail, little shoulders?”

“Answer him, boy!” Bellatrix shrieks, before cowering when she sees her Lord's hand close into a menacing fist. Rodolphus Lestrange throws her a bitter look.

“Ah!” screams Hermione.

Harry wheels around to see Severus Snape holding the young witch, pinning her arm behind her back. His eyes widen in horror.

“So, Potter,” Voldemort hisses. “I ask you again. How did you become so powerful?”

Hermione shakes her head violently, her eyes begging Harry not to disclose the information the Unspeakables have worked so hard to come up with. Snape, a vicious grin curling his lips, pulls her elbow further up and she cries out as her knees buckle. A look of indecision crosses Harry's eyes, but he says nothing, looking alternately at Hermione and Voldemort. Snape coldly slaps the young woman, who falls hard on the floor, sobbing.

“Nothing like Muggles' methods to deal with Mudbloods,” he says, smirking.

“Anub—” begins Harry.

“Harry, don't!” Hermione calls, but Snape's foot crashes into her stomach and a groan of pain bursts from her mouth.

“Anubis' Gates,” Harry says firmly. “The Unspeakables found a way to harness their power, and I have become the receptacle for said power.”

A delighted fire dances in Voldemort's eyes, barely quelled by a hint of suspicion. He nods pleasantly to Snape, who pulls Hermione back on her feet but leaves it at that.

“Is that so?” Voldemort murmurs pensively, an eager smile creeping on his lipless mouth. “I don't believe you,” he says in a sing-song voice which is possibly creepier than his usual hiss.

Did Harry not wrap the veil around him? Hermione's mind, numbed by the pain, wonders frantically. But he can feel the power, so why—

In a flash Voldemort has disappeared, and Harry is screaming at the top of his lungs, screaming, screaming loud enough to shatter stone. He falls to his knees, holding his head in his hands, while the scar on his forehead rips open and keeps tearing down. Snape has let go of Hermione and pulled out his wand. She whips hers out as well. Remus walks up to them, wand pointed at Harry's bellowing form, and stands next to Snape, a grim look on his face. Harry's face is nothing but a bloody mess as he writhes on the floor, fighting Voldemort's occupation of his mind and body. Tears gush out of Hermione's eyes, blurring her vision, and Remus' face is twisted in despair.

“Avada Kedavra!”

1. Six hundred and sixty six. The number of the Devil, according to some beliefs.

2. “Well, well, my pretty… What are you doing outside alone at night?”

3. “You sure aren't very polite. Unless maybe you're just stupid?”

4. “I'll show you what we do to Roast-beefs” Much like Frenchies are called “frogs” by the rest of the world, they call the English “Roast-beefs” because of their supposedly red faces.

-->

• 18. Truth be told

January, 1999

Saint Daunes, France.

“You killed Harry,” Ginny whispered, wide-eyed, too stunned to even cry. “You—killed—Harry!” she repeated, eyeing the woman across her with ferocious disbelief.

“Actually,” Hermione, her eyes itchy from the tears that irreparably accompanied this memory, corrected her, “we killed him.”

Life flies out of Harry's eyes, leaving nothing but a disfigured and bloody body where the Boy Who Lived had stood moments before. Hermione collapses to the ground, sobbing in earnest, hiccupping mingled tears and blood. Remus and Snape, eyes fixed on Harry's slumped form, fearfully await the moment when Voldemort will rise from the young man's body, signifying that their last attempt has failed and that Harry's sacrifice has been in vain.

But nothing happens. The Death Eaters stare, aghast, at Harry Potter's cadaver. Time is still. Then there is a rapid movement, a raucous sigh, and blood gushes, thick and dark, on Hermione. She screams, shaking the wizards from their torpor, as Severus Snape's body hits the ground with a heavy thump. Behind him stands Bellatrix Lestrange. Her mouth is half open in a gaunt grin, and in her hand she holds a bloodied dagger. Snape's throat was not enough to appease her thirst for revenge, however, and she makes to lunge at Remus Lupin, who eyes her with a hate rarely seen in this man's eyes. Rodolphus Lestrange manages to catch his wife's wrists before she can reach the werewolf.

“Enough, Bella,” he whispers in her ear, eyeing Remus with mild apprehension, for the man's upper lip has pulled back to reveal rather sharp canines.

“Traitor!” she howls and fights against Rodolphus' grip. “Traitor! Murderers! You killed him! You kill—“

“Stupefy,” comes a cool voice.

Bellatrix immobilizes in her husband's arms.

“Stupefy. Stupefy.”

Hermione barely registers that she has been petrified. Remus is too distraught to care. The thought he believes to be his last flies to his spunky, feisty, little Nymphadora, and he hopes that she will quickly outgrow her infatuation for him once he is dead.

Lucius Malfoy pulls the hood back from his face, then places his wand back into his robes. Then, turning to the Death Eaters, he nods slowly, as if pondering something.

“We all knew this would happen,” Malfoy says tiredly. “Whether by the hand of Harry Potter or some other prophesied savior, whether in ten years or a hundred, the Dark Lord was bound to meet his match.” Bellatrix' eyes roll furiously, threatening to burn holes in the back of Lucius' head. “Thirty years ago, we were dragged out of our peaceful, measured lives to follow the lead of this power-craving genius. Beyond his magical abilities—which were as astounding as they proved to be convincing—, his power resided in the fact that he managed to make us all irremediably tied to him. By staining our hands with murder, torture, and deceit, he insured that we would support him until he deemed us no longer fit. He branded us. He marked us as surely as if we had been cattle, this brilliant, half-blood degenerate.”

The mention of blood status rings through Hermione's mind like an alarm. Though she doesn't know what Malfoy is working toward, she can sense that the two words did not dirty his elocution for nothing.

“What we would have needed then, and what we need now, is a government capable of guarantying that never again a man like Voldemort will rise. What we need are rules ensuring that order is maintained. What we need are witches and wizards capable of leading a country by making the right decisions.”

Remus' eyes fall upon Snape's head, a pool of blood wreathing his dark hair with a morbid halo. Not for the first time since he has known Severus, he manages to feel sorry for the man whose role in the Order required that he kill Dumbledore. Not for the first time, either, he keeps the pity to himself and chases the thought that, with his acute werewolf hearing and smell, he should have sensed Bellatrix approaching.

“What I ask for,” Lucius Malfoy continues, “is names. We have dealt with shameful anonymity for too long. In order for our community to rise from its ashes, its leaders must be strong and unafraid of assuming their actions. And those actions,” he finishes somberly, “will involve permanently excluding half-bloods and Muggle-born wizards from the community, because only they, more than anyone, due to their inferior status and power, have the bitterness and ambition that create monsters like Voldemort.”

Hermione wishes she could close her eyes, for she does not want to see this man, feet in his half-Muggle savior's blood, placidly blaming the greatest evil known to wizardkind on said savior.

“We must keep them out of our affairs. You were here with me tonight. You saw how Voldemort, a half-blood propagator of death and affliction, was vanquished at last by Harry Potter. You saw how Harry Potter's own friends, half-bloods Remus Lupin and Severus Snape, and Muggle-born Hermione Granger, turned on him and coldly finished him off with a joint Unforgivable Curse. If you were with me tonight and have seen what I saw, and like myself, believe that we can only thrive once our community is rid of Muggle filth, then I suggest you tell the world what you saw and do something about it.”

“Unsurprisingly, Peter Parkinson was the first to step over and stand by Malfoy's side. Then there came Romilda's father, I believe, and a pretty renowned researcher, Angela Bjork. Rabastan Lestrange was next, followed by Hadrien Prewett, Padma and Parvati's mother, and Amos Diggory. You should have seen the look he gave Harry, Ginny. You would have thought he was eyeing something fouler than Voldemort himself.”

Ginny sat there, speechless. The immensity of everything Hermione had just revealed was too overwhelming to comment upon lightly, or even comment upon at all. The brown-haired witch added four teaspoons of sugar in her tisane in a gesture that was as uncharacteristic of her as it was revealing of her state of mind.

“After that, it was sordidly easy for people to turn against us. Mudbloods and half-bloods killing the savior of wizardkind? They tactfully neglected to point out that Harry wasn't exactly a pure-blood, either. We're lucky the conclusions from our trial established that, since we had somewhat aided in the process of defeating Voldemort, we would be spared imprisonment for life and merely be banned from the community.”

“You were tried?”

Hermione nodded grimly, then sipped at her deliciously sweet tea.

“And you didn't tell me?” Ginny asked, feeling an all too familiar anger at being constantly kept away and in the dark when her friends were in trouble.

“There was no point,” Hermione retorted without the smallest hint of regret. “You were away, probably bothered enough as it was by the recent death of both your family and Harry, and there was nothing you could have done for us. Besides, we were quickly made to understand that it would be in our best interest to go with the Wizengamot's decision. Basically, we fled. And besides, our fate was the one put in vigor for all Muggle-borns and half-bloods, not just us `backstabbing traitors'. It was pretty clear they let us off `easy', probably because we knew too much.”

“Well, I'm glad you played in their perfect little plot and didn't disclose such valuable information, even to people who thought they were your closest friends. Does Tonks know? What about Luna? And Neville?”

“No one knows, Ginny. And again, don't you realize we were happy to get away with our lives? Those were Death Eaters. Coming after us would have been more than a piece of cake; it would have been fun. And let me tell you that your aunt-in-law would have been delighted to drop by, see if she could be of some use, maybe slit a throat or two…”

Ginny was shocked at Hermione's cynicism, regardless of how well she understood its necessity when trying to protect oneself from painful truths. She, herself, during her second year at Hogwarts, had been hard to approach, for her sarcastic comments and biting barbs had sent more than one unsuspecting student back to square one. It had taken time, loneliness, and a few, persistent souls to pull out a metamorphosed Ginny from her cocoon of paralyzing acrimony.

“I quickly figured out I was pregnant,” Hermione continued, “and that was incentive enough to get the hell away from Malfoy, his cronies, and the imbecile mass of wizards in their leave. All that mattered was the child in my womb. Moving to New York was quite an adjustment, but in the end, there are few things I have regrets about, though many I miss—and miss sorely.”

Hermione placed her cup back on the table and stared at Ginny neutrally, as if the younger witch's approval or blame couldn't matter less to her. This was no longer the Hermione she had been at Hogwarts, eager to please the teachers, daring to cross the line only if she thought there was no other way, and severely berating herself for it afterwards. Ginny silenced the remaining anger inside her, walked around the table, and embraced Hermione.

“It must have been so hard, being so lonely,” she said.

“About as hard as it must have been for you,” Hermione replied, her voice oddly high-pitched and wobbly.

They sat there for a while, reliving what had happened in their minds, imprinting in every inch of their being and memory the words to what exactly had happened between Harry Potter and Voldemort. At some point Hermione stood up. She kissed Ginny on the forehead, then went to bed. The redhead sat there, looking idly at the ring around her fourth finger.

***

London, England.

Draco emptied the first envelope, allowing for a flow of photographs to pour on his desk. He found himself perusing them with less detachment than he would have hoped for. The date of Ginevra's first day in Paris was scrawled in Blaise's aristocratic handwriting in the upper right corner of the envelope.

Ginevra stands in front of Rodin's Gates of Hell, a blissful smile on her face, her eyes luminous with delight. She casts a look around to see if the museum guard is around, then, satisfied, runs her hands along the bronze bodies surging from the sculpture and coiling at the corners. Her fingers brush over the twisted figures, the babies' plump arms, the women's taut stomachs, the men's necks and shoulders. When after fifteen minutes she moves away to keep exploring the Musee d'Orsay, there is a tinge of regret etched in her curvy mouth.

Ginevra is seated on the floor of one of the Louvre's sculpture courtyards. Her hand guides her pencil across the drawing pad as her eyes dart back and forth between paper and sculpture. The graphite makes dark lines, a curve here, an angle there. Slowly, the man's marble musculature emerges from the previously incoherent pencil marks.

“Vous dessinez très bien,” (1) a dark-skinned man tells her.

Though she doesn't understand, she can tell from his sparkling eyes and grin that he is being friendly. She flashes him a bright smile.

Draco groaned, and, for a second, wondered whether he should send someone after the French man. The following pictures showed him Ginevra exiting the Louvre, in the subway giving an unordinary amount of money to a beggar, and at the Champs Elysees blushing like a school girl at men's flattering glances.

Damn the French and their love of women, Draco thought somberly. There was a knock on the door. Draco, still going through the pictures, called, “Come in”.

“Eh bien, ma jolie, on se promene seule dans la nuit?”

Ginevra throws her aggressor a surprised and uncomprehending look.

“T'es pas très polie, dis donc. A moins que tu ne sois stupide?”

She tries to pull her arm away, unsuccessfully ordering the man to let go of her.

An envelope landed on the desk, bearing the dates of the past week. Draco looked at it without understanding, positively infuriated by the man's attitude toward his wife. His knuckles had become white. His jaw was clenched so hard it became almost painful.

“Those are last week's pictures,” Blaise murmured, sounding as if Voldemort had announced he would drop by for tea.

Draco watched mutely as the one photograph he had been staring at revealed how the Frenchman had become more violent and his wife had fought back.

“You were there and didn't help her?” Draco gritted out.

“Well, I would have, but she seemed like she could take care of herself…”

“He could have hit her!”

“I would have prevented that,” Blaise retorted testily. “I just felt that if I got involved then, it would show I had been tailing her.”

“And? So what? I asked you to do it,” Draco stated, his voice frigid.

“Somehow I doubt she would have appreciated that, Draco.”

“I couldn't care less. I have every right—“

“To have Ginevra followed?” Blaise said, slightly smirking. “Certainly. She'd be delighted to hear you say it. Maybe I'll just tell her now, in fact, with evidence a la carte,” Blaise added, making to grab the most recent envelope.

“Don't you dare,” Draco hissed, eyes narrowing dangerously at Blaise's attempt to take the incriminating evidence from him.

Calmly, he opened the envelope, and looked at the first picture that came out. Blaise closed his eyes and waited, dread slowly seeping into him.

Ginevra walks into the courtyard of the house. There is a woman sitting on the stone front-porch, and she is feeding an orange-haired baby.

“Granger,” Draco snarled, his brow furrowing in curiosity.

Granger notices Ginevra and smiles. Having walked to her, she appears to present the baby to her. Ginevra looks flabbergasted. They exchange a few words, and Granger leads them back to the bench where she was earlier. She looks noticeably uncomfortable. Her attempt at a comment earns a bitter retort from Ginevra, upon which she casts a spell at the blonde, whose hair instantly turns red and wavy, covering her shoulders with a thick, coppery mane.

Blaise had been watching the picture and his friend alternately. Draco's eyes widened ever so slightly, as cats' do when one makes an unpredicted move, and for a moment, it appeared like some of his iris' pigments had been damaged: the gray rings around his pupils became so pale they might have been ice. The piles of papers, sets of quills, ink bottle, and picture frames on Draco's desk began to shake. Blaise, slowly and smoothly, started to back away, throwing appraising looks at the distance between himself and the door. The glossy bottle of ink rose from the table, hovered about temptingly, then whizzed to the wall and shattered.

“Look, Draco, I know—“ Blaise began, wondering whether he would make it out of the room in time, when files and papers shot from their storing areas and began whirling around the room, threatening to give both men paper cuts.

Draco let his finger softly caress the image of his red-haired Ginevra playing with the Mudblood's baby. His anger, beyond anything he had ever felt before, chilled him to the bone, sharpening the edges of every instant lived and enjoyed with his wife, clarifying uncertain moments, bringing blinding light to the months of deceit. Blaise slipped out of the room as the paper-cutter and razor-sharp quills launched themselves at him.

So the littlest Weasel is out to get me, Draco mused, his thoughts crisp and cool like the minutes before a storm. He sensed, as if he were an outsider to himself, a blind and consuming fury looming about him, preparing itself to dip in and collect its due. Pain was all that, for the moment, kept it at bay, a pain not entirely unfamiliar to the one that had accompanied the news of his father's death; it spoke of losing a loved one and learning to deal with that absence; it spoke of shutting one's feelings out to never be wounded again; it spoke of cold, then of a new beginning now betrayed, worthless and soiled. Anger seeped into him at last, igniting the being of dry and dead wood he had become the moment he had recognized her at last.

The desk split in two with a sharp crack. Draco stood up, walking over the shards of wood and the splattered black ink, and reached the door where his quills and paper-cutter still quavered imperceptibly. He pulled the paper-cutter from the wood, weighed the blade at the tip of his fingers, then grasped the hilt and violently threw the paper-cutter across the room. It got stuck in the opposite wall, burying itself almost entirely there. Draco cracked his knuckles aimlessly, peering around his office and feeling oddly detached, almost calm. He wheeled around and crashed his fist into the wall. The pain it caused brought back a few sparks of feeling into him, but not enough to shake him from his murderous rage. He went on, breaking every single object with a push from his mind.

There came a soft, hesitant knock on his door.

“Come in,” he called, his voice smooth and unctuous, belying the battlefield that spiked his mind.

His secretary warily slipped her head through the open door, holding out a scroll toward her livid boss. Draco smiled tightly, took the scroll from her hand, and waited for her to disappear. He ripped the ribbon that tied it, noticing without particular enthusiasm that it bore Cyrus' seal.

My very dear cousin,

I hope your return to England has been without trouble. I am certain you were delighted to begin work again— don't try to deny it. I know you love it. You're probably wondering why, after spending this very agreeable week in your company, I would take some of my precious time to write you a letter. I've been meaning to find a way to tell you this, but I understood that it would not be pleasant news to give during Christmas. Please, forgive me for delaying and, also, for bringing such bad tidings to your house.

It appears that your wife Ginevra is no Vassil as you were told, but that she was christened Ginevra Molly Weasley, lastborn of Arthur and Molly Weasley's family. Astarte informed me of this a few days ago.

Also, it would seem that Ginevra is after more than your heart—she is after other men's as well.

For a few seconds, Draco saw Ginevra kissing Cyrus under one of the Bibi Khanym mosque's arcades. His cousin's letter burst into flames as Draco felt a new wave of hatred electrify him. He was surprised to find, after all he had learned about Ginevra, that it focused on Cyrus rather than on her, though his fingers itched to close around her frail neck and crush the life out of it. Another explosion shook Draco's office, leaving little more than rubble and Draco, looking out the window, in its wake. Outside the rain came down in waterspouts, making a loud clicking noise on the paved streets and windows.

I need to get out, Draco thought somberly. Get out, calm down, make a decision, and go for the kill.

***

Paris, France.

Ginny wandered aimlessly as tourists and Parisians, surprised by the rain, hurried to find a shelter. The Place Saint Michel was quickly empty, save for the passage of an occasional, rain-jacket clad passerby. Ginny pretended to look for something in her robe pocket, conjuring a bright yellow umbrella that she pulled out and opened in a flash of sun-colored plastic. A curtain of sidetracked rain hid the water-washed, gray street to Ginny's vision, isolating her from the world outside.

What am I doing? What do I do now?

The days spent with Hermione and Harry Arthur had convinced her of one thing, at least: she would not give the baby up. That option had always appeared horrendous to her, but seeing the way her sister-in-law interacted with her child had forever banished the possibility of an abortion. She realized that, more than anything, she wanted the baby, whoever's it may be, and that for it she would give up anything and anyone.

Give up Draco. Why is it so hard to imagine? He never mattered, never really was part of the equation. The real question is: can I let my family's death go unpunished?

Yet, now that she had chosen what to do with her child, the path was very clear: she would not raise anyone to become Draco Malfoy's heir, so she had to leave. And if that meant no more spying, no more plotting, no more pretending that she loved him, then so be it. She could do that.

Of course I can, she tried to convince herself.

A look at the “J'aime Paris” watch she had bought told her Draco would be home from work soon. With a sinking feeling, she Apparated to the Manor, hoping she could find the strength and determination to permanently pack her bags and go.

***

Malfoy Manor, England.

“Welcome back, Mistress,” Grainne said brightly upon Ginny's Apparating on Malfoy Manor's front porch.

“Thanks,” Ginny retorted rather glumly. “Is Draco back yet?”

“Not yet. He has been working late again while you were away.”

“And is Narcissa around?”

“No, Mistress. She decided to go spend some time with Mrs. Bellatrix and her family.”

“Oh, right,” Ginny said. “Lucky her.”

She walked up the stairs leading to her room, her mind obscured by a single, harrowing, and highly intellectual thought: what would she wear that night to please Draco? The vanity of it all annoyed her, but she figured it was her way of making a clean good-bye, and that she was willingly playing the role of the loving spouse one last time, preparing herself to never play it again.

Draco found his wife waiting for him at the dinner table, wearing a dress of salmon silk that complemented her pink cheeks marvelously. He berated himself for thinking how pregnancy fit her well, eventually establishing that, as a male, he was entitled to having such thoughts… thoughts which, of course, had nothing to do with an affection for her he clearly didn't have. She rose slowly, ceremoniously, then, giving in to instinct, threw herself in his arms. He was surprised by the fierceness of her hug and the desperation that seemed to emanate from it, though he easily attributed them to a conniving plot to further ensnare him. He was angry to notice how his body delighted in the feel of hers and hurried to escort her back to her seat.

“So,” Draco began neutrally, an odd light dancing in his eyes, “how was Paris?”

“Great,” Ginny replied without a second's hesitation. “You should see the Louvre, Draco, it's absolutely breath-taking! So many rooms, paintings, sculptures—“

“Do they move?”

“No, they're Muggle.”

“Then they are utterly unworthy of my attention.”

Ginny rolled her eyes, belatedly reminded of her husband's disparaging comments.

“Well, not of mine. Though, I have to admit, my favorite was the Musee d'Orsay.”

“Really,” Draco said, his voice flat. “Why?”

“I think it's the choice of pieces they have there. The first floor is just—“

James materialized next to their table and bowed. Ginny was surprised at finding herself happy to see him again. They ordered dinner, and Draco requested champagne to celebrate her return. She felt flattered, though there was a hint of unctuousness in his every glance and attention that unsettled her. Convinced that she was delusional, she paid no attention to her mind's signals of alert, answering his unusual amount of questions without much precaution.

“… are just so ill-mannered! The number of Parisians who bumped into me on any single day and stalked off without so much as an excuse is truly incredible.”

“Did they give up their seat in the, ah—subway?”

Ginny was puzzled by the fact that he knew of Muggle means of transport, but even more so by the reason why anyone would give her a seat.

“I hear pregnant women are entitled to special treatment with Muggles.” Draco shrugged.

A chill stiffened Ginny's back as she was reminded of her condition and the choices that that entailed. For a fleeting moment she felt vividly how empty leaving Draco would make her, but she realized that she had no choice and would move on with the typically Weasley strong-headedness.

“Did you get to see the whereabouts of Paris?”

“No,” she said, unsure as whether that qualified as a lie since, technically, Saint Daunes was closer to Toulouse than it was to Paris.

“I suppose Paris is simply a lot to handle,” Draco offered placidly.

“Yes, that's exactly it,” she was relieved to admit.

“Did you see the Eiffel Tower?”

“Yes, but I didn't climb to the top—the line was just too long.”

Draco smirked, aware of how eagerly the owners of the Jules Verne, a prestigious restaurant located on the first floor of the Tour Eiffel, would have accompanied Ginevra there.

“And the Arc de Triomphe?”

“I was there, too,” Ginny said, noticing his immaculate pronunciation of the French syllables.

“I hear the Ile Saint Louis is rather pleasant to visit.”

“It is,” Ginny lied, letting her thoughts drift back to the night when a Parisian had decided to be even ruder than his compatriots.

“How was Notre Dame de Paris?” he went on.

“Charming,” she replied, fairly certain that she hadn't set foot anywhere near the cathedral. The champagne made her thoughts somewhat murky.

“Did you run into Serafina Zabini? I hear she was spending a few days there with her friends.”

“No, I didn't.”

“And, of course, you took one of those famous canal-boat trips?”

Never had Draco asked so many questions. The sentences swarmed in Ginny's mind, and she wondered if drinking alcohol on an empty stomach had been such a good idea.

“Yes, I did.”

“Did you like the Quartier Saint Germain?”

“Yes—”

“But, surely, not as much as the Champs Elysees.”

“No,” Ginny smiled, looking out the window to escape Draco's piercing eyes.

“Did you like the expositions at the Grand Palais?”

“I didn't—“

“At the Orangerie, then?”

“Yes,” Ginny answered, not recognizing the names he threw at her, though she was well aware she had been to none. She figured if she said “yes” to what rang a bell and “no” to the others, she would fare well enough. Her thoughts danced inordinately in her head.

“You must have enjoyed the Musee Picasso?”

“Yes.”

“Then again, with your taste for sculpture, I suppose the Musee Rodin was even better?”

“Yes,” she repeated, smiling at the thought of the Gates of Hell she had spent so much time admiring.

“Did you have a picnic on the Champ de Mars?” He kept bombarding her methodically, his ideas so clear he felt he could almost name the second when she would cross herself.

“No,” she said tiredly.

“A hot chocolate at the Trois Magots?”

“No.”

It almost felt like a game.

“An apple in the Jardin des Tuileries?”

Ginny glanced at him oddly but directed her gaze to the frozen grounds again. There were no apple trees in the Jardin des Tuileries.

“No.”

“Did it rain a lot?”

“No.”

“Was Potter your first?”

“Yes.”

A satisfied and cruel smile stretched Draco's lips. Ginny kept looking outside the window for a second, peacefully wondering what kind of question that was. Then she realized who had asked it and what she had answered. She turned to stare at Draco and was met with his calculating, stone-gray eyes. Horrified, she pushed her chair back, got up, and, seeing that he didn't flinch, quickly walked toward the door.

Get out. Get out now, quickly, before he…

Her hand was on the door-handle when one of the table knives whizzed a few millimeters from her face and buried itself into the door. She felt the blade trembling against her cheek, closer to her skin than her own hair.

“I suggest you come back to the table, Ginevra,” came Draco's voice.

Obediently, she walked back toward his seated form, barely noticing the locks of hair that fell to the floor as she did so, severed by the knife. Draco eyed her coldly, his glare sharp and deadly like a razor-blade, and she couldn't find the strength to lift her eyes from her crumpled napkin on the floor. Her mind was blank with barely restrained terror.

“Look at me.”

Ginny sat up straighter in her seat, placed a hand on her belly for comfort, and slowly, met Draco's murderous stare with her own fear-tinged, amber glance. She had hated his arrogance and cruelty back at Hogwarts but had never felt particularly threatened by it—with six brothers in tow, a particularly nasty Bat-Bogey Hex, and a close encounter with the Dark Lord himself, she didn't need to worry about a snotty brat's prerogatives. As it was, however, she would rather have been kneeling on a scaffold with an axe held above her head.

“Draco, I—“

“You know,” he cut her off, “with all the lies you've been telling, I think it would be better if you sat silent for a while.”

His gaze, running all over her figure, was scathing beyond anything she had ever experienced. She doubted he looked at anyone, not even Muggles, like that. Draco picked up his wine glass and thoughtfully slid the rim across his lips, not taking his eyes off her, as if debating which limb he would tear off her first. He probed her thoughts lazily, finding them gaping open, made available by the shock and dread that shook her. She winced as he replayed their fooling around in the snow, their honeymoon, and the night of their wedding. He was surprised to perceive unveiled happiness and desire in those memories but closed his mind to the questions they engendered. She had tricked him, no more. Gotten a kick out of it, probably. Whatever joy he found in those recollections was inexorably linked to the success of her plan to destroy him.

“Cyrus was kind enough to inform me of your real identity,” Draco began, “and of your wantonness.”

“How dare he—“ Ginny snapped, her eyes wide with anger.

“Loyalty?” Draco offered coldly. “Family ties? Both of which you have an excellent understanding and respect of, it would appear.”

“It also appears I'm not the only one versed in deceit!” she retorted, furious that Cyrus had managed to pass off his rape attempt as a product of her own depravity.

Draco's eyes narrowed dangerously.

“Is that so?”

“Yes! He ambushed me in the mosque, asking for seven shag—“

“That's enough, Ginevra,” Draco snarled.

“Look, then,” she said, her voice twisted and unevenly pitched. “See for yourself!”

Ginny hadn't expected his mistrust to hurt her so deeply. His accusation of having seduced Cyrus felt like a burning iron on her skin, like punishment imposed to an innocent, even though she understood how thoroughly she was not blameless, and that any claim to justice would be risible. Beyond the pain he caused her with his disbelieving and inquisitive frown, however, she knew she had to protect herself and the child she carried. She hoped he would trust her enough to let them walk out of the dining room alive.

Draco ruthlessly dug into her mind. In an instant of delusional satisfaction, he delighted in the flash of pain that ran across her face when he probed her thoughts. He delved through memories of her childhood and loving family, pushing aside birthdays, Christmases, and dinners, until he found what he was looking for. Again he saw the kiss Cyrus' letter had contained, but he witnessed the preceding dialogue and Ginny's ferocious retaliation against his cousin's courtship. He was filled by complementary feelings of absurd wrath toward Cyrus and gratitude for Ginny's fidelity—if only in that respect. At last he withdrew from her head, granting her a moment of respite that she immediately sought advantage of.

“Look, I'll just take what I had before coming here and lea—“

Draco sniggered. It came out as a soft, extremely mellow laugh, textured and refined like bitter honey.

“You aren't going anywhere.”

It was Ginny's turn to narrow her eyes as she wondered whether she should let panic take over and make a dash for it, or calmly wait for Draco to explain himself and not end her life with a butter-knife stuck between her shoulder blades. She eyed him warily.

“It so happens that you are my wife,” Draco went on, “and that I have a reputation to uphold—even if it is a reputation you've been striving oh-so-hard to permanently damage. Besides, you're also carrying my child.”

Ginny's arms closed protectively over her slightly bulging tummy.

“So, as you can imagine, you are quite valuable to me. Not to mention I paid such a hefty sum for you. I'd like to see my investment rewarded.”

“Aren't you afraid you'll wake up with a knife against your throat one morning?” she muttered.

“The question is, `Shouldn't you be afraid to wake up one morning without a baby in your womb?'.”

“You wouldn't—“ she hissed, desperation seeping from her voice.

“You'll be surprised to find that where machination and threats are concerned, I can be just as conniving and ruthless as you are.”

That was quite a blow, and Ginny was silenced by it. She gave Draco an expecting, albeit nervous look, knowing that he had something on his mind and that she'd better subject herself to it without so much as an objection.

“You will live in Malfoy Manor and keep your little act up until my heir is born. Then I will decide what to do with you.”

“You can't just—“

“I can do whatever I want, Ginevra,” he replied sharply, “as your are bound to me by more than paperwork and promises of undying love. Even if the past months have been nothing more than a lie, that child you carry is mine, and I intend to raise it as such.”

“No,” Ginny said. The premature maternal instinct immediately kicked in. “I do not belong to you, and neither does the child! I may have tricked you, but you deserved it.”

She said this with an air of finality that comforted her. He, on the other side, winced imperceptibly, then leaned forward, peering into her eyes.

“Is that so?” he asked coldly. “Do explain.”

“You know what I mean, Malfoy,” she answered, emboldened by her anger. Forgetting that she was in a rather precarious situation, Ginny felt protected by the justification that he had caused her family's death.

“Apparently not,” he lied smoothly, somewhat unsettled by the rage that had flared in her eyes, distantly pleased by her display of courage. “Regardless of whether I deserved it or not, Lady Malfoy,” he addressed her evilly, “you will remain by my side until I decide otherwise. If you know what's good for the two of you, that is.”

The hatred vanished from her eyes, leaving fear and tiredness in its wake. Draco thought somberly that, even though she seemed vanquished by their conversation, in the morning she would have found a way to get back at him. He would have to make sure she didn't get any ideas.

“I'm going to bed,” Ginny said, her eyes downcast, as she pushed her chair back.

He let her walk rapidly out of the room, neglecting to throw a knife at her that time. He followed her and caught up with her as she opened the door to their bedroom. When he placed his hand on her hip to escort her through the door, she recoiled and shot him a venomous glare.

“Get your hands off me.”

“No,” he replied, smiling despite himself, though in the darkness of the room she didn't see it.

She glared at him, nodded as if answering an unspoken question, then made to exit the room. He caught her by the wrist and pulled her to him.

“And where do you think you're going?”

“To my room.”

“This is your room.”

“Not—any—more.”

She tried to tug her hand from his grip. He responded by enfolding her in an uncompromising embrace, then leaned to whisper into her ear.

“We wouldn't want the house-elves knowing that we sleep in separate chambers, now, would we?”

“Since when do you care about what house-elves think?” she mumbled against his shoulder, struggling to push him away.

“Since I have to trouble myself with the doings of petty and treacherous beings, amongst whom my beloved wife features as well.”

He placed a slow, tantalizing kiss in the crook of her neck, then bit her tenderly. She whimpered. Feeling how delectably she responded to him, Draco found himself wanting her. He shoved her roughly toward the bed, in an attempt to keep as much distance between them as possible. He hated himself for what she spurred in him.

“Get to bed,” he snarled, heading for the bathroom where a cold shower would help him regain his senses.

-->

• 19. And baby makes… three?

January, 1999

London, England.

Blaise, Shehzin at his arm, strolled up to Draco. Lord Malfoy, had anyone bothered to pay his stern figure the attention it deserved, was clearly unhappy to be at the gathering, though he easily concealed it from the common crowd.

“Draco, fancy seeing you here alone,” Blaise said casually.

“Is Ginevra not feeling well?” Pansy, nearing them, asked with polite concern.

“She has been tired lately. The Mediwizards have recommended that she spend more time at home,” Draco lied. “We felt it would be better if she attended Shehzin's birthday rather than this charity dinner.”

“How kind and thoughtful,” Serafina observed as she inserted herself in the group. “We would be sorry to hear that Ginevra is ill.”

“Yes, we would be,” Shehzin repeated, eyeing Draco with a mixture of annoyance and expectation. She couldn't imagine why Ginny had decided to not show up at the orphanage's charity event, or why she hadn't even warned her beforehand. They had, after all, only been preparing this evening for the past month or so…

“Quite, quite,” Blaise said, unsure of what to say, and wishing Shehzin would be subtler in her disapproval of Draco's comments. He could not afford to have him angered again—not with the mood he already was in. Though his affairs were going noticeably better since Hermione Granger no longer received detailed information of Malfoy's strategies, Draco hadn't been this mournful and nasty since his father's death.

“Fina,” Draco said to Serafina as he linked her arm through his, “you said you dug out this orphanage. What is your strategy to make sure that the children get the attention they deserve?”

“Well, you see, the children here…” she began, then dragged him away from the group.

“Wench,” Pansy said casually as she watched their retreating forms.

Blaise nodded sadly.

“How long had you and Ginevra been working on this project?” he asked.

“Two months,” Pansy replied evenly, glaring at Draco and Serafina's retreating backs. “She was thrilled at the thought that, thanks to this dinner, they would receive funding for an education at Hogwarts. And now Serafina is taking all the credit,” she went on, utterly oblivious to the fact that Blaise may have been offended by her blatant bad-mouthing of his sister. “Where is Ginevra?”

“Home,” Shehzin pitched in at last, her voice rich and soft like velvet. “Taking things slowly. The trip to Uzbekistan was tiring, it would appear.”

Pansy stared at Blaise's wife in an attempt to discern disapproval or, better, a lie. She found neither in the other woman's tone, so she nodded, somewhat satisfied, and moved on to other guests—if Ginevra wasn't willing to show up to ensure that her precious orphans got the attention they deserved, and Serafina was too busy flirting with the married Draco Malfoy, then she, Pansy Parkinson, would ensure that the orphanage got taken care of. As soon as she was gone, Blaise shot Shehzin an inquisitive glance.

“I would like it if you kept Serafina away from Draco, Blaise,” she said darkly. “There's something going on between the Malfoys that eludes me, and I don't like it. Ginevra would have given anything to be here tonight.”

“Draco knows who she is.”

Shehzin hid her face in one hand, closing her eyes in an attempt to chase the fear and sadness that accompanied those news. She began understanding why her friend had declined her many invitations, had not been seen at the MCCD for days, had failed to show up at Pansy's regular tea ceremonies.

“Don't worry, I doubt he killed her,” Blaise offered flatly.

She glared at him.

“Somehow I am not particularly reassured by that,” she said.

“Yes well you would do well to not dwell further upon it, love. We owed Draco; we don't owe him anymore. How he chooses to deal with Ginevra is his business and his alone.”

“Not if she's in danger,” Shehzin retorted heatedly, “and from what you've been implying she certainly might be.”

“Draco won't touch her a hair on her head,” Blaise said calmly, though he had known Draco long enough to doubt even that. “She's pregnant.”

“Ginevra is pregnant?” Shezhin repeated, floored. “Oh Lord…” She looked somewhat relieved, but that didn't keep her from adding, “But he can still hurt her without causing a miscarriage. Physical torture isn't---“

“Yes, I know. And I repeat: there is nothing we can do.”

“Keep Serafina away from him, Blaise. Please. It's the least we can do for her,” she added, knowing how much Ginevra had resented the other woman's flirtatious attitude toward Draco though she would have slit her wrists rather than admitting it.

“I'll do my best, love,” Blaise promised, and he kissed Shehzin tenderly before following Draco and Serafina.

***

Malfoy Manor, England.

“I will not tolerate this from you,” Narcissa said coldly.

“Mother, what—“ Draco began, annoyance and deference oddly linked in the tone of his voice.

“How dare you exhibit yourself with this, this… girl,” she spat out, “when your wife is at home and suffering?”

“She is not suffering, Mother, just tired,” Draco replied, his voice suddenly as chilly as Narcissa's.

“Don't lie, Draco, it doesn't befit you.” She raised a hand to stop him from interrupting. “Regardless of what is going on between you and Ginevra, you cannot be seen at charity dinners and receptions with Serafina Zabini.”

“She's of a good family—“

“And of a terrible reputation! Rita Skeeter has already been hinting at the possibility of a liaison between you two and I want this absurd rumor to come to an end immediately.”

Draco eyed her levelly, but nodded—he hadn't planned on comforting Serafina's hopes that she may become his mistress, much as he had wanted to dissociate himself from Ginevra. Sharing a bed with her every night with the knowledge that he would be castrated should he so much as try to lay a hand on her was definitely encouraging him to seek feminine comfort elsewhere. However, he hadn't been able to succumb to Serafina's enticing glances and barely veiled propositions—yet.

“Good. Now, about Ginevra… I don't understand what happened while I was with Bellatrix and her family, but she is withering away. She's your wife, Draco! She carries your child, carries your name, carries the Malfoy ring for Merlin's sake!—and yet there are circles a meter wide under her eyes and her smiles are forced. She isn't happy!”

Good, Draco thought nastily. As well she deserves to be.

“Where is she now?” he asked.

“In her room. She said she felt ill and I haven't heard from her since. The house-elves won't go in there, but they refuse to tell me why, either. Needless to say the kitchen floor is probably strewn with elven body parts…”

Draco grinned somberly and placed a kiss on his mother's cheek.

“I'll go and see what she's up to.”

“I'm sure she'll be delighted to see you,” she said. Though she perceived the disabused smirk that twisted his lips, she found herself unable to explain it, and merely pressed the point. “You have been gone so often lately, I sometimes wonder if you're still married.”

“So do I, Mother, so do I,” he said softly and walked out of the salon where she had been embroidering baby clothes.

As he ambled down the carpet-lined corridor, Draco thought glumly about his wife's “illness”. Her pregnancy was going impeccably well, the Mediwitch repeated, yet her stomach swelled at the expense of the rest of her figure, her clavicles, cheeks, and knees filling with shadows where the flesh faded. And despite that, despite her increasingly angular shape and the glares she shot in his direction everytime she could, his desire for her just wouldn't quiet down. He woke up at night when the length of her arm inadvertently pressed itself against his. He felt her every movement in the way the mattress or the covers shifted, and waited for her body to unfold as the night progressed. Weasley would fall asleep, curled up, at the other side of the bed, and, in her sleep, move, so that in the morning Draco woke up with Ginevra pressed against him.

And more than once he had to refrain himself from pressing her harder against him.

It's the lack of sex, he convinced himself. Only that, he felt, could justify the mixed feeling of anticipation and alertness that coursed through him as he placed his hand on the door-handle. Has she been in there all day? Maybe she's sleeping… Imagining her in the bed where they had had torrid sex over and over again did nothing to quell his expectation. He opened the door and stepped into the room. Immediately he understood that Ginevra had cast a Silencing spell.

She stood with her back to the door, wearing nothing but a silk dressing gown she had loosely tied at the waist. She pranced about, picking up objects as she went—a vase, a statue, a framed picture of baby Draco—and hurling them against the wall ferociously. The dressing gown gaped profusely because of her wide movements, giving Draco the first glimpse of her engorged breasts he had seen since her return from Paris. Feeling distinctively voyeuristic, he watched on.

Ginny rolled her sleeves up then ran her hand through her hair, sighing loudly. She looked about for something else to break, but didn't notice the looming figure in a corner of her room. After two chandeliers, a clock, and a jewel box had succumbed to her ire, she turned to a delicately engraved mirror Draco had offered her. He saw her hesitate. He smirked contentedly. She went for the mirror.

“Oh no you don't,” he growled, unsure whether superstition or the fact that she was about to destroy one of his gifts made him react.

He was behind her in three steps and grabbed both her wrists firmly in his hands.

“Ah!” she said, sounding vaguely surprised, and immediately struggled against his hold. “Let—me—go.”

“Not if you're planning on destroying more of my possessions,” he whispered in her hair, drinking in its sugary fragrance.

“I'll fix them,” she snapped, allowing her arms to go limp for a few, misleading instants, then dug her elbow into his stomach.

Draco cursed but maintained his hold, dropping his arm to wrap around her arm and waist and pressing her against him.

“Not everything can be fixed,” he hissed.

Ginny tried wriggling out of his grasp, which only sent distinctive signals to Draco's body. He rolled his eyes, thinking Man you are, and man you remain, with a trace of humor. If her smashing his furniture provided him with an excuse to touch her again, then he was willing to open every single room in the Manor to her lust for destruction. Not that I would ever let her figure that out.

“What,” she panted, her arms aching from the effort used in trying to pry herself from him, “are you referring to your heart?”

There was an edge of sarcasm and bitterness to her voice that scorched even her own ears.

“No,” he barked, “my reputation.”

And though she wasn't surprised at his caring only for his status, Ginny couldn't help but experience a pang of disappointment at the confirmation that he had not felt anything, anything for her. She stopped struggling, tired and feeling utterly wretched, as she realized that her hopes had nothing to do with her wanting to hurt him.

I like him, she thought miserably. I bloody goddamn like the rotten bastard. What a pathetic joke…She wanted to place her hands on her abdomen, for comfort, as she had in the past few days when Witch's Weekly displayed photographs of Serafina Zabini parading from one event to the next with Ginny's husband at her arm. But Draco's hands still maintained her arms pinned to her sides, and she could feel his breath on her neck.

“I wanted to go to the orphanage's charity dinner,” she groaned at last.

“But you're pregnant and—“ Draco purred.

“It's been three months, you bastard, not seven!” Ginny spat. “My mum didn't stop taking care of the house until she actually gave birth.”

“Yes, well, what else could one expect from a Weasley?” A shot of anger coursed through Ginny and Draco felt her hands clench along his thighs.

“Don't talk about my mother!”

“Then don't talk about your mother, either,” he retorted primly.

A knot of venom coiled in her throat, tasting like unspoken accusations.

“I had been working on the project for months, and—“ she began again, willing her voice to be cold and firm, because in the situation in which she currently found herself, appearance was all she had.

“So that you could slip away and send dear Mudblood—“

“Hermione.”

“Mudblood,” he hissed in her ear, tightening his grip around her, “an owl informing her that you are being held prisoner in Malfoy Manor? I think not.”

She shuddered.

“You can't keep me here forever,” Ginny retorted. “Now let go of me. We can't talk like this.”

“We can do other things,” Draco suggested, running his fingers down her neck and the expanse of flesh where collarbone gave in to roundedness.

“Let—me—go.”

All of a sudden the air about Ginny felt cold and empty, for Draco had taken a step back and, arms crossed, waited for her to turn around. She did.

“We will go to Shehzin's birthday. You will come with me to a dinner with some business partners, though don't you dare tell anyone what your pretty little ears will hear. Also, you may accompany Mother in her visits to friends or St. Mungo's.”

“Thank you, oh supreme master,” Ginny snarled, throwing him a glare that would have chilled him to the bone had he not grown accustomed to it in the past few days. “Though you should realize that people are going to wonder where Lady Malfoy has suddenly disappeared to.”

“Luckily enough, Lord Malfoy will divulge the fact that Lady Malfoy's caught a cold in Uzbekistan and that the Mediwizards strongly recommended she not make too many excursions.”

Draco grinned broadly, though the smile did not extend to his eyes.

“You're a despicable being,” Ginny breathed out at last.

“It takes one to know one,” he said softly.

She gave him a look where anger and defeat mingled, the latter having, for the moment, triumphed over the former. She ran a hand through her hair and felt as she did so the strands that had been amputated by the knife Draco had thrown at her. Ginny then closed her eyes. The air in the room seemed to grow denser and shift, until there came the rush of magic that preceded spells and all the broken items mended themselves. The regal blue and gold furniture seemed oddly sumptuous, the wide mirrors casting back the image of a composed Draco and livid Ginny as if they had not just witnessed a domestic scene.

Ginny gave Draco the most contemptuous glance she could muster, then made her way to the bed where she slipped under the covers. He pulled out his wand and murmured, “Minox”. The lights dimmed, filling the room with shimmering shadows of copper. Ginny rolled on her side, facing the outside of the bed, and closed her eyes. When ten minutes later she felt his weight making the bed shift, she only pressed her pillow harder against her and willed herself to ignore his presence. He, however, had other things in mind, as became obvious when his skin came in contact with her back and his hand rested on her hip, then dipped between her legs.

A second later, Draco found himself flat on his back with a wand menacingly pointed at his forehead.

“That's a no go, love,” he cooed. “The Manor's magic won't let you harm the Malfoy heir.”

Ginny trailed the wand along the rim of his left eye.

“Without resorting to something as complex as magic, I'm pretty sure I could pop your eyeball easily.”

“How crude,” Draco said dismissively, though he had the vague impression she might just do it if he pushed her far enough.

“Perhaps, but it works. So keep your hands for Zabini, because I assure you—“

“No thanks, I just don't swing that way,” Draco said cheekily.

The wand's tip pressed dangerously against the corner of Draco's eye and he figured she hadn't appreciated his witty repartee.

“Right,” he muttered, and the wand regained its place on Ginny's bed-table. “Keep my hands to myself.”

Draco had been threatened of and endured worse pain than that occasioned by the bursting of one's eye, but never by one he had cared for—never by one who carried his child. He did, however, feel somewhat smug at the thought that she disliked his spending so much time with Serafina. He would have been a fool not to perceive the jealousy and hurt in her threat.

“Tomorrow we have a visit scheduled with the Head Mid-wife of the Kore Clinic,” he informed Ginny.

She shifted nervously on her side of the bed.

***

Kore Clinic, England.

The waiting room was painted in clear tones of white and green, with windows open onto beautiful gardens and furniture of pale wood. The light in the room, crisp and bright, accentuated the dark circles under Ginny's eyes and her hollow cheeks, marks of tiredness that Draco noticed with satisfaction when he entered the room. He was much less happy upon finding her hair cut at chin level and undulating like a knot of snakes.

“What did you do to your hair?” he murmured under his breath after having kissed her rather sharply.

“Well, seeing as you had already started the job, I decided to cut it entirely,” she answered sweetly.

“There are potions—“

“But since I cannot have access to even the kitchens, you understand that I would have a hard time brewing a capillary concoction.”

Ginny smiled innocently at him, and he could see the small, spark of triumph in her glance as it brightened, if for a few instants, those amber eyes of hers he hadn't seen so lively in days. Grudgingly, he admitted to himself that she looked exquisite—if unconventional—with her new haircut, though he couldn't help but wonder how much better it would look if her hair regained its natural color.

“Lord and Lady Malfoy, I apologize for the wait,” a tall, stately woman said as she entered the room. She wore pale yellow robes adorned with a badge stating her name and function. “I am Megan Jones, Head Mid-wife of this clinic. Lady Malfoy, your husband explicitly demanded my expertise, and so I encourage you to tell me everything remotely related to your health and the baby's so that I can efficiently follow your pregnancy.”

Ginny smiled tiredly at the woman whose corpulent figure and large hands gave an impression of competence, and tried to shake Draco's hand off her waist. He caressed her subtly, enjoying the annoyance he could feel building inside her.

“Please rest assured that what you choose to divulge will not go past these walls. I understand that you wish to keep all of this private until the announcement of the happy news.”

“Which will happen very soon,” Draco completed.

“I'm delighted to hear that,” Megan Jones went on. “Now, Lady Malfoy, do you mind if your husband remains with us during the visit?”

“Yes,” Ginny stated flatly.

“Of course not,” Draco said at the same time, giving a look that promised her Hell should she choose to contradict him.

“It's just that,” she tried to blush, “I feel a little bit uncomfortable, you know, talking about those feminine things…”

“But you know I want to know everything about our baby, love,” Draco said, his voice thick with a tenderness that could only be described as cold and menacing.

“Lovely, then,” Megan Jones said. “The father remains. You're lucky to have such a caring husband.”

“So I hear,” Ginny muttered darkly, and Draco pinched her.

Megan Jones directed the Malfoys into an attending room and had Ginny sit on an imposing stone chair, with runes carved in its arms and back-rest. She then placed her hands on Ginny's belly. They stood still for a minute or so, and though Draco couldn't hear any words he saw Jones' lips moving. Both women had their eyes closed. Draco felt oddly out of place.

“The baby seems very healthy,” Jones said at last, straightening herself as she reached for one of the cabinets. “Your body has fully accepted it and supports it well. I can't imagine anything should happen to the fetus should things remain as they are. Now, tell me.” She pulled out a set of greenish looking stones. “Is there a history of twinning in your family?”

Ginny nodded, her whole countenance alit by curiosity.

“Right. Well, I wouldn't want to get ahead of myself, but there's quite a chance that you're carrying twins. Would you like me to check?”

Ginny nodded again, more emphatically this time, the hint of a smile blossoming at her lips.

“Can you tell the sex of the fetus?” Draco interjected, doubting that the Malfoy line had ever had twins.

“Of course. I will do so shortly,” Megan Jones assured him. “Would you mind opening your robes so that I can place these,” she was holding the stones, “on your stomach?”

Ginny gave Draco a significant glare and he merely smirked, then fastened his eyes to her stomach. She slowly undid the lace of her robes, baring her skin inch by inch. At the opposite end of the room, Draco couldn't prevent himself from being turned on by the innocent sensuality and unwillingness of the gesture.

“Thank you,” Megan Jones' voice broke the tension as she placed the stones on Ginny's belly. They adhered and immediately sprouted tentacles, which unfurled around her belly and branched off to cover her stomach entirely.

“This is weird,” Ginny said bluntly, staring down at the vegetal mineral stuck to her skin.

Draco repressed a smile—trust Ginevra to break the solemnity of a moment with a down-to-earth comment… He stared at the plant, expecting it to suddenly turn pink or blue or scream, “Twin!” An almond shaped appendix suddenly burst open under the pressure of six petals that looked cut from a mirror. It was shortly followed by the blooming of another flower, similarly large and iridescent.

“Twins,” Megan Jones noted absently. She picked up the flowers, inspected their interior, and added, “Boys. The two of them.”

Ginny smiled brightly, looking as though her family had been resuscitated. She placed her hands on her abdomen despite the plant and closed her eyes. Though she knew better than to expect she would hear them, somehow the knowledge that she was carrying not one but two boys brought her closer to them.

In his corner, Draco tried to hide his satisfaction upon learning that he would be father to two males, which proved to be easier than expected when he considered the difficulty this would cause when sharing the heirloom. The Malfoy heir had always been the eldest boy, a fact made easier by the fact that Malfoy women rarely bore more than one child, and never more than one boy. He could tell by Ginny's beaming that she wasn't acquainted with such formalities, though he figured in her family the heritage could have hardly fed a house-elf for more than a week.

“Congratulations,” Megan Jones said, having retrieved the plant and placed it back in the cabinet. “I would suggest that you take care of yourself, Lady Malfoy. You seem somewhat on the skinny side and I sense tension. Eat more. Exercise. Go for walks. Eat more. I cannot stress that enough—for now at least. And come back to see me in a month.”

“Thank you very much,” Ginny exclaimed.

She closed her robes again and hopped off the chair, a burst of happiness etched in the lines of her face. She half-skipped out of the room, feeling exceedingly giddy. Yes, they were Malfoy's children, and yes, she was a prisoner of said Malfoy, but they were her sons! She was expecting two fantastic, marvelous, incredibly hers, sons. The truth of it was intoxicating.

Draco nodded politely to Megan Jones who, used to mothers' excitement, was utterly nonplussed by Ginny's prompt walking out of the room. She herself had run out of the room to Floo her fiance upon learning that she was pregnant. A few months later, the Head Midwife had welcomed a crying and no longer betrothed Megan Jones into her office, and offered her a position at the clinic after the baby was born. She watched Draco Malfoy's retreating back with concern, feeling something amiss in the animosity and desire that linked the couple.

Draco caught up with Ginny in the corridor. He linked his arm through hers and kept her close against him, despite her initial attempt to shrug him off.

“Manners, Weasley,” he whispered as they headed for the exit. “We're in public.”

She didn't respond. He held the door open for her and she walked stiffly into the street, feeling her enthusiasm dwindle with every second that passed. Stonehenge City bustled with activity, and even the vicious cold had not managed not keep hordes of wizards at home.

“We'll have to make a public announcement that you're with child,” Draco said.

“So what do you do in such case?” Ginny barked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Do you abandon one baby in the forest, or do you wait for them to become young men and have them fight to the finish?”

“I—“

“Because you will not do this to my children, Draco Malfoy. If you ever touch a single hair on their heads I—“

“Ginevra, it's not—“

“Hurt one of them, and I swear, I swear by my parents' grave and my brother's death which you are responsible for that I will slit your throat right there and then and watch you agonize until there is not a parcel of life left in your body.”

“Gory,” he noted, casting her an amused glance. She stared straight ahead, her lips quivering from the words just issued, but her determination was palpable and he knew that, if she could, she would carry out her threat. Her mentioning the Weasleys' death was not particularly encouraging, either, and for the first time he considered broaching the topic.

“Look. There have never been—“ he began again.

“You and your family are so fucked up,” she went on, oblivious. “How will I ever be able to raise—“

“Will you be quiet, woman?” Draco snapped, shaking her slightly by the arm. Her mouth remained open in shock, though he was certain she had handled more from her brothers in her youth. “What I'm trying to say is that since there have never been twins in my family, and much less male twins, there is no rule dictating anything in that respect. Besides, I'm not planning on spilling Malfoy blood anytime soon.”

“Sure, but what about Weasley blood?” she shot back.

She glared at him fiercely and he paid her back in kind, rooting her to the spot with a malevolent glower. Not for the first time in the past week, Ginny wondered if she hadn't pushed him too far, and how would she react if a slap of his nearly beheaded her. Luckily his self-control did not break, and though he grabbed her rather roughly to pull her through the crowd, for the moment he left it at that. A muscle in his jaw twitched erratically as he ushered her into their flying carriage. The ride home was silent.

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20. The confidant

February, 1999

Malfoy Manor, England.

To the ignorant watcher they might have appeared like the perfect couple. He sat at his desk, reading through piles of paper and occasionally signing them. Once in a while he threw her a sharp glance, usually prompted by the movement of her foot or the particularly loud turning of a page. She, snuggled in an armchair by the fire, seemed engrossed in her novel and could not have been made to look at him for all the Galleons in the world. She was, however, more aware of his every gesture and the rustling of his documents than she would have liked. Rather than berating herself for it, she read with greater determination.

A grandfather clock in the corner struck eleven. Draco pulled his papers together and placed them on the side of his desk, then walked to the armchair where his wife kept ignoring him. He rolled his eyes, knowing that she would not catch him making such a disgraceful but appropriate gesture.

“Ginevra.”

She looked up slowly, rearranging her features to display annoyance.

“Following Miss Jones' suggestions, I decided you should go out more.”

“Is that so, dear husband?” Ginny replied, her voice saccharine sweet. “Aren't you forgetting that I may not go anywhere of my own volition, much less without Narcissa to chaperone me?”

“No, I am not forgetting that,” Draco conceded, earning himself a surprised glance. “Which is why I asked Izha to come and spend some time at Malfoy Manor.”

“You what?”

“It seemed like you two got along quite well at Christmas, and she is a midwife, so I figured she would be the perfect friend.”

“And Shehzin wasn't good enough because…?”

“Because she is not family, and you could easily appeal to her compassion to make more trouble.”

“What makes you think I won't do the same thing with Izha?”

“The fact that she's my cousin and knows better than to anger me.”

“Izha wouldn't anger anyone if she could help it,” Ginny said to herself, thinking back of the strange but soothing moments spent in the young woman's company.

“Exactly,” Draco said. “Regardless, don't even think about revealing your identity to her. Same goes for letting her know the nature of our, ah—dealings, as of late.”

“So you mean I shouldn't tell her you're keeping me here against my will until you decide how to discard me without harming your progeny?”

“I couldn't have put it better myself,” Draco said, grinning ferally. “It'll be our little secret. And you like secrets, don't you…”

Ginny looked away, feeling tears well up around her lashes. He eyed her dispassionately, somewhat contented by the effect he had on her. After a childhood spent bullying other snotty kids, it wasn't without pride that he noted he could also bring the fiercest Gryffindors to their knees. Ginny was opening her book again, considering the discussion to be over, when someone knocked at the door.

“Come in,” Draco called.

The heavy wooden doors of the study opened softly and Izha appeared in the doorway, smiling her soft and gentle smile as usual. Draco got up and hurried to greet her while Ginny, wiping the much hated tears from her lashes, put up her facade of unmarred happiness.

“Welcome,” Draco said as he bent to kiss Izha's hand. “I'm so glad you could make it, particularly on such short notice. I cannot tell you how relieved Ginevra and I are that you can spend some time with us here—aren't we, Ginevra?”

Without so much as a glance for her taunting husband, Ginny wrapped her arms around Izha and hugged her tightly, in a gesture whose desperation the other woman had no difficulty identifying. It sent a familiar tingle across Izha's cheek, as if offering her the opportunity for redemption from her father's evil. Izha smiled, mocking her own, elaborate interpretations for something that may have been little more than a rash.

“I'm delighted to be here,” Izha said after Ginny had stepped back. “Thank you so much for inviting me.”

“You're very welcome,” Ginny said brightly, though Draco easily perceived the strain in her voice. “Now come, I'll show you to your room. The house-elves will deal with your luggage. I'm sure you have a lot to tell me.”

“And you probably have a few things of your own to tell her as well,” Draco pointed out.

Ginny threw him a loathing glance as she ushered Izha through the door. He narrowed his eyes dangerously, signaling that those “things” were not to go beyond news of her pregnancy. He resumed his work as soon as the women were out of ear-range, and for the first time in days managed to concentrate his efforts on the task at hand.

Ginny took Izha to one of the guest rooms closest to the main suite. It was decked with draperies and curtains of salmon silk, with furniture of dark brown wood and mother-of-pearl carvings. She felt appeased by the young woman's mere presence, though every glimpse she caught of the mark on her cheek brought back painful memories.

“So,” Izha said immediately, “boy or girl?”

“What?” Ginny blurted out, realizing belatedly that “I beg your pardon?” would have been the appropriate response.

“Your child. You can't expect me to be a midwife and not know the telltale signs.”

Ginny looked at her, eyes wide, then laughed, feeling as though she hadn't done so in years. Though the thought was not particularly delightful, the actual deed was much more so.

“So what are the telltale signs?” she asked.

“Is it a boy or a girl?” Izha retorted, her eyes twinkling mischievously.

“Boys. Two of them.”

“Your breasts are heavier than usual and obviously painful, which showed on your face when you hugged me. Besides, you kept bringing your hands back to your tummy, particularly when Draco was talking.”

Ginny sat on the bed with a “humpf” and smirked.

“Well if I'm that obvious, I wonder why the rest of the community hasn't noticed anything.”

“I suppose it's only been two or three months, so it's not surprising that they wouldn't figure it out. Are you going to make a public announcement? Make the Daily Prophet's day?”

“For someone who grew up in Uzbekistan you know a good deal about our culture.”

“Don't forget that I lived in New York for almost a year. Sut and Sophia made sure I could have access to the Wizarding newspapers of the main international communities.”

“Three cheers for them,” Ginny said good-naturedly.

“Yes, they were very kind. But so is Draco,” she added after an instant. “I had never been to England, and there is so much to see here.”

Ginny accepted to overlook the blatant praise of her currently loathed husband in favor of the prospects Izha was offering her.

“Eager to visit my beautiful country?”

“Oh, yes,” Izha said, smiling like a little girl. “If you're not too tired, of course.”

“No, the tiredness and nausea stopped a while ago,” Ginny admitted. “So we can set up a plan of all the places you want to visit tomorrow, and then we'll try to make sure that your stay here is as productive and informational as possible.”

Ginny could feel the excitement building up in her, and she knew Izha's presence would help her regain her strength. Perhaps then she would find a better way to extract herself and her sons from Draco's claws. For the time being, however, she had other important matters at hand; Izha would easily become her surrogate sister.

“Good night then,” Ginny said.

Izha smiled lovingly at her.

“Oh, and Ginevra,” she said as Ginny exited, her voice and poise more serene and mature than instants before. “All will be well.”

Stonehenge City, England.

Ginny ushered Izha in the Galileo, smiling at the dark-haired woman's awe-filled eyes.

“Don't tell me they didn't have such eminent restaurants in New York,” Ginny joked as a young man divested them of their coats.

“I'm sure they did,” Izha said, “but I never went there. Only the elite of the society…”

“Lady Malfoy, welcome to the Galileo,” the maitre d'hotel cooed as soon as they were within his reach. “We are delighted that you would—“

“Oh, Louis, would you cut the flattery?” Ginny interrupted him, playfully placing her hand on the maitre d'hotel's arm. “I like coming here and you know it. On the other hand, feel free to try convincing my friend that your place is worth her time.” Louis gave Izha an inquisitive look. “On second thought, will you just show us to a table?”

“Of course. Please, follow me,” the maitre d'hotel said, barely repressing a smile.

He led them down a dimly lit passageway until they reached a huge, spherical room. A platform extended from the corridor across the center of the sphere, and on that transparent surface were tables and chairs. The customers were served refined dishes under the slowly shifting welkin, and the starlit penumbra that reigned enveloped the entire surroundings in an elegant half-night.

“So, uhm, do they remember everyone who ever comes to their restaurant?”

“Ah, Lady Malfoy, welcome back,” the middle-aged waitress said as she placed the menu before Izha and Ginny. “Could we interest you with our specials today?”

“Yes, Bertha, please go ahead.”

“As an appetizer, our chef suggests—“

Ginny, who had been craving for the Galileo's renowned curried duck, casually glanced about the room, looking for familiar faces. She had run into the Notts and the Silversprings here more than once, much to her annoyance at the time. She looked tenderly at Izha, whose eyes, sparkling with gluttony, reminded her of her earlier weeks attending dinners with Draco. She simply hadn't been used to the attention and deference exhibited by the waiters, or to the exquisite complexity of every single dish. She thought, somewhat bitterly, that one easily grows accustomed to such richness. And then she saw them.

“Ginevra…”

The delicate pressure of Izha's hand on hers enabled her to direct her attention back to the waitress.

“I'll have the saffron shrimp dumplings as appetizers, and then curried duck with jasmine rice, and the sweet potatoes and plantain flan, please. Oh, and a pina colada, please.”

“Actually, I think we'll stick to water,” Izha firmly told the waitress.

Bertha nodded, retrieved the menus, and walked away.

“What's wrong with the pina colada?” Ginny asked, not particularly focused on the issue but surprised by Izha's display of authority.

“Muggles discovered that alcohol disturbs the pregnancy. Luckily, the magical genes usually counter-effect whatever damage is done to the fetus when witches drink, but it's just something you don't want to fool around with.”

Ginny smiled gratefully to Izha, her ears buzzing with the noise in the room. She felt the beginning of a headache building. The blood rushed to her face, beating against her temples like waves against a cliff. There was no mistaking her headache for anything other than a manifestation of her particularly vivid unhappiness.

“Ginevra, I'm sure that whoever she may be, she doesn't mean a thing to him,” Izha said softly.

Ginny's smile faltered.

“You knew they were here?” she asked.

“No, but the look on your face says it all. And I've been reading Witch's Weekly.”

“I hate him,” Ginny muttered somberly, agitating her wine glass so that the liquid danced.

“Sure you do,” Izha said indulgently, and Ginny had to look up, wondering what could make her so sure. “And don't ask me how I know. I just do.”

“You sound like you know a lot of things,” Ginny said cheekily, though Izha's air of certitude, utterly lacking the arrogance so many people often exhibited, contributed to appeasing her.

“My mother made sure I knew what was going on around me so that I would not make the wrong choices.”

Ginny gazed somberly over at the table where Draco and Viviane Silverspring were absorbed in their conversation. The woman's mane flowed like a halo about her face, and Ginny, for an instant, regretted her brash decision to chop off her own hair. Never had Viviane seemed so imposing and graceful, her attitude communicating both strength and softness in a way that appeared to be charming the living daylights out of Draco Malfoy. Ginny couldn't help but think that Viviane would have made a perfect Lady Malfoy, and sat back in her chair, the headache worsening, as she realized that the other woman was well on her way to becoming just that.

“So, uh, do you miss your mum?” Ginny asked to pull herself from her sordid thoughts.

“Very, very much,” Izha said, her voice little more than a whisper and yet strangely clear against the half-muted background of conversations. “She was all I had, growing up. She let me tag along everywhere she went, which meant that I got to see her and Grandmother helping around the village a lot.”

“The village?”

“There's a cluster of Wizarding habitations on the outskirts of Samarqand. We often went there to help those who needed it—and sometimes, when Grandfather was not around, that even included Muggles.”

“Oh no, Muggles? The horror! The horror!” Ginny joked.

“Heart of Darkness?”

“I suppose she introduced you to a few Muggle classics as well?”

Izha nodded brightly.

“My dad went berserk for their inventions,” Ginny zent on. “Electricklity, interwet, all these things that made Harry and Hermione laugh whenever he tried to use them.”

“Hermione? That's an original name.”

“She's my sister-in-law,” Ginny said, bursting to tell Izha the truth about her best friend and her recently discovered nephew. She knew better than to disregard Draco's threat, particularly when he was in the same room. “As to Harry, he is… was like my seventh brother.”

“Oh,” Izha said, and it was her turn to stare at her wine glass, for she remembered her discussion with Ginny on Christmas' Eve. She could only guess that Harry had been one of her father's victims. “Do you miss them?”

Ginny couldn't tell whether Tom's daughter was referring to Hermione, Harry, or her lost family. In any other case she would have been offended by such a blunt question. At any other time she would have felt like these were too painful memories to touch upon. But somehow, seeing Draco cozying up to another woman showed her that there are different levels of pain, and that all of them can and must be overcome.

“I miss them so much it doesn't hurt anymore. They've left leaving a part of me hollow and lifeless, so much in fact that pain does not course through it anymore. I think that I cried so much during the days that followed the news of their death that it eroded the ties between my feelings and them. It was either that or die from grief.” Ginny paused, considered what she had just said, then added, “Not dramatic at all, I know.”

“Sometimes drama is the only way to put our emotions into words,” Izha said tenderly.

“You are too wise for your own good,” Ginny laughed.

“And in that respect, my mother prepared me well.”

“Prepared you?”

“You don't fall in love with a completely twisted wizard and bear him a child without preparing for the consequences. Mum knew very early on that her existence was tied to Tom's, and that if I gained a birthmark for being the daughter of a murderer, she could expect trouble from his ascent to power—and downfall, as well.”

“Was she right?” Ginny asked, too curious to keep her mouth shut. Izha nodded.

“She raised me to live without her, taught me how to be kind, thoughtful, and studious, made sure that I would be mature enough not too, ah… wither away when she was gone.” Izha pushed her hair out of her face, revealing the dark cross on her cheek. “So I guess it's that wisdom you were talking about that kept me standing when she died.”

“What happened?” Ginny asked again, amazed at the calm with which Izha evoked such memories.

“Tom died.”

Only then did Ginny realize how childish of her it had been to keep pressing the issue. She herself had awakened in the middle of the night, feeling as though a particularly painful piece of her psyche had been torn from her and crushed under her eyes, and she had only been possessed by the diary. It only seemed fit that death would await the woman whom Tom had come so close to loving.

“So you see,” Izha went on, imperturbable, “I just try to think of my troubles and fears as grains of sand in the ocean of human misery; focusing on them makes my life spicier, more vivid, but in the end, the world is exactly the same whether I wallow in self pity or not.” She paused. “And that's the end of my corny metaphors for the time being,” she added, laughing so freely that Ginny couldn't help but feel like laughing, too.

They were brought there appetizers, and the food, as it often does, chased away deep and harrowing conversations. And though there wasn't a minute that went by without Ginny's casting a glance to the table where Draco and Viviane enjoyed their meal, she had to admit that he was entitled to his fun now that she refused herself to him. It pained her to think in such terms, but so long as the facade was maintained, then he was, by his own set of rules, free to do anything he pleased. Ginny just hoped that she would be able to bear the news of his fooling around with other women, for her newfound feeling of stoicism felt momentary.

When Ginny and Izha got ready to leave, Draco and Viviane were still engrossed in their conversation. As she pulled her coat on, Ginny called Bertha over.

“Would you mind sending Lord Malfoy and Lady Silverspring over there a bottle of your best Firewhiskey? Add a few teaspoons of Pepperup-Potion to it and say that since Lady Malfoy couldn't indulge herself, she hopes they will drink in her name.”

The waitress nodded and headed for the kitchens. Izha and Ginny stepped out of the Galileo laughing like schoolgirls, though the latter couldn't help but feel that her prank would never suffice to mend the gash made by Draco's inconsiderate actions.

All is fair in love and war, she thought bitterly, though she couldn't have told which one she was engaged in.

Draco Malfoy, once he recovered of mixed Firewhiskey and Pepperup Potion's terrible effects, found himself thinking along the same lines—albeit with a copious amount of curses interspersed in the maxim. He swore he would make her pay.

On February the fourteenth, Draco had to cancel dinner with his wife in favor of a business meeting. Ginny appeared less troubled about it than Narcissa, whose glare threatened Draco with murder the second he announced they would not be going on a date. Frigidly, she asked him which CEO, which Minister, would be spending the evening with Lord Malfoy rather than his wife, particularly on Saint Valentine's Day. Draco responded just as coolly that it was an impromptu, albeit extremely important meeting, and that though they both regretted it, they would have to attend it.

From the corner of his eye, Draco saw Ginny's form slumping ever so slightly, and the spark of sadness that shot through her eyes convinced him that he had effectively retaliated.

Where a woman strikes you in your honor, strike her in her pride. Following Draco's suggestion, Leo Lestrange was sent back to his family. His progresses at the MCCD having grown exponentially, his uncle felt it was time he regain his place amongst his magically apt equals. Draco also tried to have Lorelei Prewett return to her parents, for he had noticed Ginny's affection for her distant cousin ever since Halloween night, when she had stood on the brink of the pentacle holding the little girl by the hand. Holda Prewett had flatly refused to take her daughter back, claiming that the girl would step out of the MCCD to enter Hogwarts or rot. And though the shrill laugh that followed that statement implied that she was joking, Draco Malfoy had thought better than pressing the issue. In the end, he figured, Ginny would be sufficiently saddened to see one of her proteges sent away.

Ginny did not learn of her husband's manipulations, though their effects slowly gnawed at her. Tea at Pansy's became a weekly hell, for Serafina could not be kept quiet about all her evenings spent in Draco's company. One day that Blaise's despicable sister was away, Pansy cornered Ginevra and asked her right out what a good number of people had been wondering.

“What is wrong between you and Draco?” she drawled between two puffs from a cigarette; she would have looked like the cat who caught its prey had it not been for the flicker of concern in her almond eyes.

“Nothing,” Ginny lied flatly, though she didn't dignify her affirmation with a smile and stared right back at Pansy.

“Of course. Well, in the event that something should ever be wrong—just know that he's an ass, and a bastard. So that the more he cares for you, the harder he will try to hurt you if you give him cause.”

“He doesn't care for me,” Ginny said, smiling in a disabused way.

“Oh trust me, he does,” Pansy said, the bitter edge of her voice unmistakable. “I wouldn't have let you marry him otherwise.”

Ginny looked at Pansy with mixed shock and incredulity.

“Well, I wouldn't have made it so easy for you,” Pansy amended. “I'm afraid that when Draco is bent upon doing something only he can put an end to it, which is something you would do well to remember.”

Ginny nodded in appreciation, knowing that showing any more gratitude would displease the other woman. She didn't know where Pansy's sudden concern sprang from, but she couldn't help but feel faintly encouraged by it.

“Oh, and by the way… I'm having dinner with Draco tomorrow night. I thought you should hear it from me before you read it in Witch's Weekly.”

That bitch, Ginny thought without much conviction.

Izha proved to be extremely distracting, and Ginny was grateful for that. Showing her around Wizarding and Muggle London gave her an excuse not to think of Draco's repeated excursions, extended meetings, and dinners during which he barely paid her any attention in favor of discussing his affairs. Narcissa sometimes accompanied Izha and Ginny in their peregrinations, a cool, composed, but always interested travel companion. More than once Izha caught Draco's mother staring tenderly and worriedly at Ginny, though she could tell, from overheard conversations between mother and son, that she had been strongly encouraged not to broach the topic.

Draco, meanwhile, buried himself in work. The sense of duty his father had inculcated him with early on in his life had often been a burden, yet all of a sudden it became a particularly resplendent excuse to spend as little time as possible at the Manor. Unbeknownst to Ginny, Izha gave him regular feedback on the pregnancy, and he was satisfied to hear that his wife, despite her unhappiness, took her health very seriously—should things remain as they were, he would be the proud father of two little boys within five months. The indistinct idea that they should be raised in a united family, protected from gossip and unexpected truths, pushed him to make quite the tactical error. Before leaving for work on the eve of April first, he purposefully strode in Ginevra's bathroom as she wandered about, wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around her head.

“Get out!” she snapped as soon as she saw him.

Draco stood there, eyeing her up and down, even after she unwound the towel from her hair and hastily draped herself in it.

“Good morning to you too,” he said at last. She glared. “You're looking lovely today, if a little wet.”

“Doesn't the King of Wankers have better things to do than be voyeuristic and crude?”

“He does,” Draco conceded. “He would like to inform his highly-fuckable-looking wife that the Malfoys will make a public announcement tomorrow according to which Lady Malfoy is pregnant, and none other than Ginevra Weasley, the sole survivor of—”

“Fuck you,” Ginny hissed, shocked by her husband's words. Their conscious vulgarity echoed the harshness of the revelation. Both wounded Ginny beyond what even she deemed reasonable.

“Will you?” he asked, stepping forward, looking like Christmas had come early.

“Get—out—immediately,” Ginny enunciated slowly.

Seeing the hairbrushes and bottles on the vanity oscillate dangerously, Draco prudently made his way for the door.

“Suit yourself, then. Tomorrow at eleven, Ginny.”

The bottles of bath bubbles exploded loudly behind the closed door, and Draco could tell from the inarticulate scream of rage he perceived in Ginny's mind that she was fighting very hard not to shout. The anger and fear ended abruptly when she realized he was probing her mind. Draco smiled to himself while Ginny, stunned, fell to the floor and listlessly gazed at the marble tiles.

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21. The flight

March 31^st 1999

Malfoy Manor, England.

Ginny had Grainne call Izha. The young woman walked into Ginny and Draco's room for the first time to find her friend in bed, eyes burning with fever, her skin damp with perspiration. The mark on Izha's cheek, glaring against her pale skin and revealed by her tied up hair, made Ginny's heart beat a little faster. It wasn't often that Izha so freely displayed the mark, but the timing was particularly unfortunate. The nausea that overwhelmed her then was caused as much by the Fever Fudge she had ingested as by more painful memories.

“What's wrong?” Izha asked, hurrying to Ginny's side.

“I don't know. I feel like I may have caught a cold or something.”

“Hmmm… Well, there certainly won't be any trip to the Hestia Gallery today!”

Ginny looked stricken.

“Oh, no. Please don't stay stranded here just for me!”

“But—“

“It's a dreary day and spending it here is not going to make it any better… I'd feel horrible knowing you're stranded here because of me.”

“But who will take care of you?”

“Since when do I need anyone to take care of me?” Ginny laughed softly, then closed her eyes as another wave of heat shivered through her. “Trust me, the house-elves will be delighted to drown me with concoctions and cooling draughts.”

Izha looked thoughtful, but she knew Ginny well enough to understand that the other woman would indeed feel miserable to make her stay at home.

“Very well, then. I'll go. Would you like me to bring you something back?”

“Other than my husband?” Ginny joked bitterly. “No, nothing, but thank you.”

“I'll tell the house-elves to brew some Fever Fighter,” Izha said, and kissed Ginny on the forehead.

Ginny waited for a half-hour, half-heartedly cursing Fred and George's invention; never mind their usefulness, the fever certainly felt real enough to keep her stranded in bed for a day. When she was certain that Izha was gone, Ginny quickly popped an antidote in her mouth and stepped out of bed. She dressed comfortably, then made her way for the library.

It was lit with torches, an unusual fact during the day. Outside the large windows clouds were gathering in menacing pools, looking very much like molten lead. From the park came the slow, languid whisper of a brewing storm. Ginny quickly found the book that would answer her question. A few pages of reading and a spell later, she was settled: she could not Apparate as long as she stood on the Malfoy grounds, a precaution certainly taken by Draco as soon as he had figured out her identity.

She wasn't surprised, or angered— she would have done the same had she been trying to keep someone captive. All she had to do now was take the appropriate measures. She recopied a map of the Malfoy grounds and shoved it in her pocket. In volume seven of the Merlin Encyclopedia of Spells she found a set of incantations that would definitely help her— if not save her. That was when someone knocked at the door. Ginny jolted.

“Come in,” she said.

“Lady Malfoy, I have a message for you,” Grainne said. “It's from Lord Malfoy.”

“Thank you, Grainne,” Ginny said, taking the letter and retreating to the armchair by the window. She opened it.

Ginevra,

I will not be back until later tonight.

For tomorrow's announcement, I will explain the circumstances of our meeting: through a Durmstrang-Hogwarts collaboration we began exchanging letters and found that we had a lot in common. The end of the war enabled us to meet. We decided to cross the gap once dug between our two families, and unite the bloodlines of two of the most ancient pure-blood families. Think up credible details to add should you be asked some questions. You are rather good at that.

—Draco

PS: And do not, for so much as a second, forget who and where you are.

The letter burst into flames as Ginny muffled a cry of anger.

“Cross the gap”? “Cross the gap”! The only gap I will cross will be the one that separates marriage-life from widowhood!

Once she had everything prepared, Ginny went back to bed, swallowed an additional bite of the Fever Fudge, and allowed herself to wallow in self pity as nausea and heat overwhelmed her. Izha found her there, half-awake, bathed in sweat and mumbling incoherent words, and though she couldn't quite put her finger on it, she was surprised by the rapidity, if not the inauthenticity, of Ginny's illness.

“What is wrong with her?” Narcissa snapped as soon as Izha had emerged from the master bedroom.

“I—”

“Is it because of Draco?”

“I don't—“

“Don't lie to me, Izha. I knew his father well enough to understand how much Malfoy men hurt the ones they care for.”

“Well, ah—“

“I'm going to string his balls on a drying cord.”

Izha stared at Narcissa, amused and surprised by the bluntness of her words. Her aunt was proving to be surprisingly different from what she expected.

“Don't take me seriously. I want a granddaughter, too.”

“I also doubt you own a drying cord,” Izha pointed out.

“And if I do I have no idea where it is,” Narcissa acknowledged, smiling wanly. “Either way, Draco is in trouble.”

“I'm afraid he is,” Izha said softly and headed back to her room.

Narcissa, now aware that she would have to intervene in her son's affairs, did not ask Izha for more information. She figured she would find out soon enough what was happening between Draco and her daughter in-law. But when Draco arrived home little before midnight, Narcissa, lulled by the woods and leathers like those that decked Lucius' cabinet, had fallen asleep in her son's study. The rain's song against the windows maintained her in a peaceful slumber.

Upon his arrival, Draco went straight to his bedroom. He could guess that Ginevra had been livid all day long. Not surprisingly for anyone who knew a Malfoy, not a surprise for anyone who knew a Slytherin, the situation thrilled Draco. He stepped into the room expecting something— anything —from her, and eagerly awaiting it. The beating rain drops hit harder on the windowpanes. The lights were off.

“Lumos,” Draco whispered.

The room was bathed in a soft, golden light. Ginevra, her curls forming a diminutive halo on the pillow, slept soundly. Draco sighed, ever so softly, noting the shadows beneath his wife's cheeks and eyes. A rapid trip to the bathroom informed him that his face bore similar stigmas.

Draco Malfoy managed to keep a straight face when Rabastan Lestrange knelt before Voldemort and announced that the business was done. He was able to nod proudly when the Dark Lord's decrepit fingers curled around his shoulder in acknowledgement of the service rendered. He found the strength not to crumple right then and there, under his fathers' enemies' satisfied gaze, plastered to the ground by the weight of a family's murder. But now, as he stands, facing a mirror in Malfoy Manor, relieved by the knowledge that this proof of loyalty has guarantied his parents' lives for the time being, he knows that what he has just done has dirtied his hands permanently.

He stares in the mirrors, rediscovering the shadows that in his childhood had made his face look pointy and mouse-like and that today made him look gaunt and dangerous. They pool below his eyes, surge beneath his cheekbones like two dark gashes, crease the lines around his nose and burry his features in a strange and impressive chiaroscuro. And though by the Dark Lord's decree his arm remains unmarred by the Mark, from this day Draco is worth no more than any other Death Eater.

This is the price to pay for their safety, he thinks desperately. It was them or the Weasleys, and I made my choice.

Even though he would like to think it was a conscious and well thought out decision, however, he cannot fool himself. He knows all too well that he gave up the little snatch of paper easily, eagerly even, in the hope that this would satisfy his father's Master. He also knows that he had no idea who he was sentencing to death— and that though he had been raised to despise the Weasleys, he would have thought twice about surrendering their whereabouts to the pack of bloodthirsty hounds the Death Eaters had become.

As it is, though, it's too late. Draco can only be grateful that to preserve his anonymity, to ensure his stellar position at the Ministry, he was ordered to remain at home while Voldemort's pawns were sent to massacre yet another family.

It had been one year. In the morning, the Daily Prophet would publish, in small, printed letters at the back of some under-read page, the names of those killed that day. And on April second, Ginevra Weasley's name would appear again, in bold and extravagant fonts on the front page of many Wizarding newspapers, showing to all that not only was she still alive, but happily married to Draco Malfoy and well on her way to bearing him two beautiful sons. Then, with Ginny tied to him by the weight of reputation and public expectation, he would have more time to figure out how to deal with her without sending her away, something he had at last concluded he would not be able to do.

Draco slid between the sheets as the first lightning sizzled across the sky. Ginny remained on her side of the bed, resentful even in her sleep. He kissed her shoulder gently and, turning to the other side, fell asleep.

At some point during the night, Draco awoke to the sound of a woman weeping—a sound that had previously annoyed and angered him to no end, but that, in the wake of things that had happened between him and Ginny and within events greater than themselves, struck a cord in him. Half-asleep, he moved to hug his wife, and was surprised when she responded. She buried her head in his chest and clutched to him, still sobbing softly, mumbling a sequence of names he knew all too well.

“Charlie,” she wept. “Oh Gods, why all of them? And Bill—poor Fleur, poor, poor Fleur. And George, and Fred!”

Draco, fully awake, surmised she was either dreaming or too overwhelmed by sorrow to realize she was clinging on to the man who had pretty much signed her family's death decree. He didn't miss his chance and gathered her closer to him. Her tears streamed down his chest.

“Oh, Ron,” she whispered at last, and sat still, nested in Draco's arms.

Draco didn't even have the bitterness to be offended by her thinking of her brother Ron— of all people! — whilst with him. Believing she had fallen asleep again, he kissed her on the forehead, and slowly lowered both of them back in a reclining position.

She kissed him.

More precisely, she rolled on top of him as soon as he was lying down, and fiercely pressed her lips to his. In the fragment of a second it took for his body to realize what was happening, Draco responded, kissing and caressing her hungrily, ignited by a fire repressed since he had thrown that fateful butter-knife at her. Weeks of celibacy resurfaced in this moment of liberation, and he took her as overtly as she gave herself, in a fervent and generous communion, in the flittering vividness of this instant of truce.

Ginny fell asleep curled up against Draco. He, satiated by the first physical contact she had granted him in two months, quickly and irremediably drifted into Morpheus' realm.

An hour later, the bed shifted under the weight of Ginny slowly untangling herself from Draco's limbs. She took her wand and murmured a spell that she had figured out the Manor would let her cast.

“Usque aurora dormio (1),” she whispered.

She thought her chest would burst from mingled fear and relief when a silvery smoke spilled from her wand, wrapping around her husband tousled hair, and then vanishing. Then she hurried into her bathroom, came out wearing jeans, a turtleneck, and knee-high boots. On the coffee table she placed her birth acts, a few galleons, clothing she had bought with the money inherited from her family, and a folded piece of paper with the address on it.

“Minimus,” she said, and her possessions were reduced to the size of hazelnuts. She slipped them in her jacket pocket as she put it on. “Impermeabilis.”

A blue halo enveloped her, covering her with a film of light that would hopefully get her through the storm. She had been hiking in the woods with Charlie and George often enough to know that this would suffice to keep her dry until she reached her destination.

“Sarvuort em en ut siamaj,” (2) she added at last.

Three shots of black light flew through her, making her momentarily dizzy. The spell would come into effect as soon as she crossed the Manor's border, incapable until then of overpowering the property's ancient magic. Ginny closed her coat. After an instant's hesitation, she stepped over to the bed, and kneeled above the bed. She kissed Draco softly, and his hand closed around her neck, caressing the ear as he returned her kiss. Feeling her resolution quaver, she quickly pulled back, made sure that he was still sleeping, and stepped out the door.

In silence, she made her way outside, an achievement that the Manor's marble floors and heavy carpets made easy. The wind was blowing fiercely when she walked out, crashing raindrops that felt like hail into Ginny's face. She tied her hood. She buried her hands in her pockets, and then she ran.

She ran like she did when she used to run across the woods in search of a hideout. She ran like she did when they were playing tag, or hide-and-seek, and that Ron always came after her first, seeing as she was the easiest one to catch. She ran like she used to at Hogwarts when trying to escape Tom's hold, her clueless crush on Harry, or news of more killings. She ran as she always had, knowing that eventually she would be caught; except that this time, she was better prepared.

She found her way across the grounds and the well-kept woods, having spent enough time there during her first month to know where she was headed. The mud made her progression slow, and more than once she almost slipped, pushed around by the wind, but the trees lent her supporting branches, and she managed to reach the gates. She had only seen them in passing, before, when she and Draco took the carriage to go to some outing or another. They reminded her of the Hogwarts gates— seemingly always open, without a single lock to hamper their doors, and yet quasi impenetrable.

Ginny pushed the gates slightly open and slid through. As soon as she was outside of the Manor, she felt a weight lifting off her shoulders. A second rush of dizziness confirmed that the spell she had cast earlier was now in effect. She Apparated away.

***

April 1^st 1999

Draco awoke as the sun peaked behind the horizon, released from the spell by the first ray of daylight. He extended his arm across the bed, expecting to encounter Ginny's scrumptious flesh, hoping to renew the night's follies. Instead, his hand met barely ruffled sheets. His mind froze, precision and rationality once again taking over with cool efficiency. He did not for an instant think she was still in the vicinity.

“Godfried!” he roared, jumping out of bed.

“Yes, Master?” the ghost murmured as he materialized in the room, all too aware of the rage in his Lord's voice to expect anything good.

“Fetch me my Nimbus,” he barked, then rushed into the bathroom to pull on suitable clothes. “And make sure all the brooms are still there!”

When he emerged, dawn cast hesitant gleams through the window. A dense fog covered the grounds.

“Damn her. Damn her to Hell!” Draco snarled, aware that she had manipulated him like only he had ever manipulated others.

The Nimbus 3000, fastest broom of the collection as of yet, appeared within Draco's reach. Godfried informed him that none of the brooms was missing. He slipped warm Quidditch robes on and ran down the corridor. To Narcissa who, surprised by the commotion, slipped a sleepy head through the door of her bedroom, he hissed, “She's gone,” and kept running.

“Reperio Ginevra,” he said then hopped on his broom and followed the silver arrow that had sprung from his wand.

He kept to his course steadily, flying speedily through the narrow trees of his property. He wasn't surprised when the arrow carried him to the gates of the Manor. He figured that at the speed at which he flew, and since she hadn't taken a broom, he could catch her within a half-hour tops. What he would do when he found her, he couldn't tell, but the mere thought of it got his blood sizzling. Tremors of cold anger shot through him with an inhuman violence, awakening the instinct of the hunter ready to pounce on its prey and do with it what it pleases. When Draco actually crossed the gates, however, the arrow vanished.

Surprised, Draco snapped, “Reperio Ginevra”. A dark sliver spilled from the wand and vanished. “Reperio Ginevra!”

When the wand failed to produce the desired arrow, Draco broke it in one, clean snap. He sped back to the Manor, then ran into the vestibule, his thoughts oddly cool and composed, the steps to follow crystal clear in his mind.

“Grainne, I want the list of Ginevra's reading material these past weeks— books, newspapers, notes, everything,” Draco said placidly. “Godfried, contact Emoritius Lane; he's in charge of the Floo Network and owes me a favor. I want to know of all the communications, exchanges, and passages from the Manor to another place.”

“Draco, what's going on?” Narcissa asked from the top of the stairs, wearing a nightgown and yet looking as regal as any queen.

“I'll tell you in ten minutes, Mother. If you could get Izha as well, I would be grateful,” he said as he ran past her, toward his study. “Oh, and Grainne, cancel the announcement with the Daily Prophet.”

“Is Ginevra alright?” Narcissa enquired.

“She will be until I find her,” Draco called back, and then slammed the door of his study shut. In two strides he was by the fireplace and had thrown a handful of Floo Powder into the flames.

“Zabini estate, Blaise Zabini.” He waited a few seconds. “Blaise, get up, now!”

Blaise Zabini's face eventually appeared in the fire place, his long and dark eyes still heavy with sleep.

“What the bloody Hell do you want? It's seven in the morning!” he grumbled.

“Six, actually,” Draco said.

“Fuck you.”

“Ginevra's gone.”

“Ginevra's gone?” Blaise repeated, sleep disappearing from his gaze at an alarming speed.

“Ginny ran away?” came Shehzin's voice from the fireplace.

“I gather she isn't with you, then,” Draco said nonchalantly.

Blaise's head was pushed out of the way, only to be replaced by Shehzin's, all coppery skin, tousled black hair, and furious eyes.

“Of course she isn't with us! I haven't seen her in weeks! You—“

“Shehz, you shouldn't—“

“No, Blaise,” she said menacingly, then directed her glare back to Draco. “You've been keeping her away from her friends and the people she cares for ever since you learned of her identity. You humiliated and hurt her by prancing about with Serafina at your arm. You're nothing more than a cruel, egotistical, sel—“

“Shehz…” Blaise tried.

“Are you quite finished yet?” Draco said softly. His eyes had narrowed dangerously, and the tone of his voice dropped a few degrees. “Regardless of what you may think, I had my reasons for acting as I did, and am accountable to no one. Now tell me: do you, or do you not know where Ginevra is?”

“We don't, and even if we did—“

A hand wrapped itself around Shehzin's mouth and Blaise appeared again, pushing his wife out of the way.

“Look, Draco, I'm sorry we have no idea where she is. Just give me a half-hour and I will be right over.”

Draco nodded and closed the communication to the sound of Shehzin's, “No you bloody well won't!” He sat at his desk, toying with his paper-cutter, then pulled out a quill and piece of parchment.

Leo Lestrange, he wrote. Lorelei Prewett. Oliver Wood. Neville Longbottom. Clearwater. Hermione Granger. “Hermione Granger” and “Neville Longbottom” he circled viciously, determined to visit them personally rather than to send Blaise to do the dirty work. There was a soft but determined knock on the door.

“Come in.”

Narcissa stepped in, shortly followed by Izha. Both took a seat on the sofa and waited in silence.

“Well? I think you owe us an explanation,” Narcissa snapped, giving her son a patiently cold stare.

Draco felt somewhat relieved by his mother's pragmatism, though he knew her well enough to perceive the anger beneath the smooth tone of her voice. Izha, meanwhile, eyed Draco with what could only be described as overflowing with compassion, her enigmatic smile making her look affectionately receptive.

“There's something I have known for a while and that I failed to tell you…” he began. And though neither woman batted so much as an eyelash during the discussion that followed, the revelation of Ginny's identity and undeniable desire for revenge came as quite a shock.

1. My pathetic attempt at Latin: “Sleep until dawn.” If anyone knows Latin, please correct me!

2. “Jamais tu ne me trouveras,” written backwards, which means, “You will never find me”—in French.

-->

22. Hunting a woman

April 1999

London, England.

“See you on Monday!” Ginny called as she exited the small bookshop, preceded by her belly.

Satisfied with the small thumps that answered from within her womb, she set out into Muggle London, progressing gingerly so as to avoid iced-over puddles here and there. Her boss had allowed her to take a copy of Lord of the Rings home for the week-end, and she was delighted at the thought of two days spent lazily sipping hot chocolate and reading. Ten minutes later, she had reached the townhouse where Dean Thomas and some of his friends lived. They had welcomed her without a question when, two weeks earlier, she had showed up, unannounced, at their door.

Of course, Dean had been floored upon learning that she was not only alive, but married, and running away from her husband. His happiness had seemed authentic enough to Ginny to warrant her staying with him longer than she had planned. And his friends were truly adorable. Muriel had helped Ginny dye her hair a rich, chocolate brown, and Mark, Jared, and Anthony had donated large shirts and sweaters in which Ginny could inconspicuously fit her stomach. Anthony had dug out a sufficiently well-paid job at an artsy bookshop, enabling Ginny to pay her share of the rent despite the others' protests.

When she reached the house, she found Dean sitting on the steps, smoking a cigarette.

“Get that out of your mouth, young man,” she joked.

“Only if you replace it with something else,” he retorted, pouting his lips amorously.

Ginny waved her hand menacingly, but laughed.

“Come on. I hear it's bad for babies,” she went on.

“Of course,” Dean said, and immediately crushed it on the floor, looking mildly repentant. “Must not harm the babies. How are they doing today?”

“Excited at the prospect of a week-end discovering Tolkien, I'm sure. Now, let me go through, Great Knight, lest I freeze the babies, myself, and Tolkien on the spot.”

“Only if you promise to get suitably dressed and come with me.”

A hint of surprise flashed through Ginny's eyes.

“Why? Where are we going?” she asked, feeling like Draco's shadow was suddenly looming over her.

“That's for me to know and you to find out,” Dean said, smiling so mischievously that Ginny was instantly reassured— Dean would never inform Draco of her whereabouts, and she doubted Draco could track her down here. After all, Dean had been erased from the Wizarding community, along with the rest of Muggle-born and half-blood wizards.

“Very well, then, but I'm afraid a sweatshirt of the Holyhead Harpies and jeans will have to do.”

Dean nodded, smiling enigmatically, and stepped aside to let her go through. In Muriel's room, which they shared, as they were the only two women of the group, she found a dress. It was large and by no means fancy, of a deep, plum color, embroidered with oriental arabesques, but Ginny felt that Dean had chosen it with care and the thought both touched and pained her. She remembered how easily she had gotten over him when Harry had made himself available, knowing all too well that neither had been fooled in the process: the arguments and disagreements Dean and Ginny had had back at Hogwarts had been extremely superficial and useless, little more than excuses for Ginny to break free from Dean.

She had neglected him then, and the kindness with which he had welcomed her into his life— and not without risk, as she had warned him— led her to wonder about his intentions. She could only hope that the wedding band she still wore, along with the substantially more voluminous proof of her pregnancy, would keep him at bay.

Just because I'm running away from Draco doesn't mean I don't lo —well… I don't. But it must be hard for boys, growing up without a father. Could I…? Could Dean…?

At last, Ginny slipped on the dress, applied a little bit of makeup, and then wrapped herself up in several layers of clothing. When she stepped out, it was to find a rather dramatic amount of cigarette butts, reduced to ash pulp, at Dean's feet.

“Smoking is bad for your health, too, you know?” Ginny observed.

“Smoking?” Dean asked innocently, though a part of him was relieved by the fact that she cared.

Gallantly, he offered her his arm, and back into the Londonian streets they plunged.

***

London, England.

“So, I went and asked Oliver Wood about Ginevra, and he clearly had no idea what I was talking about.”

“Did you—“

“Yes,” Blaise said, “I poured copious amounts of Veritaserum in the beer I paid him, and he only looked more confused by the conversation.”

“I didn't think that was possible,” Draco commented snarkily.

“Yes, well, neither did I, but here I was, staring into his blank—albeit beautiful—“

“Did you find Granger's address?” Draco interrupted.

“Here it is. And this is Longbottom's. But to tell you the truth, I don't think she'll go to either of them. She knows how you operate too well to count on your neglecting to `interrogate' them.”

“It's worth a try.”

“Definitely. I think we need more info, though. Is there someone who attended Hogwarts with her and who could tell us who were her friends, boyfriends, etc.?”

“Boyfriends?” Draco asked, now looking positively murderous.

“Yeah,” Blaise went on, oblivious. “I hear she had quite a lot.” He noticed his friend's dark countenance. “That was before she met you, of course,” he added quickly, repressing a smile.

“Vane.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Romilda Vane. Nott, now. She was in Gryffindor around that time. She'll be able to tell us.”

“Perfect. I'll get right to it then. Oh, and Draco… Serafina wanted to know—”

“No.”

“Right. That's what I thought.” Blaise smirked, then added, more thoughtfully, “Though next time you feel like breaking a woman's heart, I would rather it not be my sister's. She's a bitch and a great deal of other, nasty things, but she's a human being, too.”

Draco nodded without answering, but Blaise was remotely satisfied to find a spark of comprehension is his gaze.

It takes a broken -heart to know a broken -heart, he thought, unsure whether to be amused by the ironic turn of events or worried about both his best friend and his sister.

***

London, England.

“So you turned him down,” Muriel stated flatly, staring emotionlessly at Ginny.

Ginny nodded sadly, not daring to look up, feeling guilty enough without needing Muriel to rub it in.

“I thought you would,” Muriel went on, and smiled at the look of surprise on Ginny's face. “I mean, you show up at his door, married, knocked-up, looking for a place to stay before you moved on… You, his high-school sweetheart—“

“I wasn't his high-school sweetheart,” Ginny said morosely.

“Well, I only figured that out after I saw the two of you together. But the way he spoke of you, we always thought—“

“He talked about me?”

“In a way, yes,” Muriel said, not willing to elaborate. “You should have seen the hope in his eyes when he asked us whether you could stay for a little bit. There was no way we could say no!”

“You like him,” Ginny said, understanding suddenly dawning upon her.

“I'm lesbian,” Muriel said unequivocally.

“Oh.” Understanding actually dawned upon her.

“But I do love him as much as I love my brother. There was no way I would let his high-school sweetheart—which you weren't, I know,” Muriel continued when she saw the look on Ginny's face, “stay cold, hungry, and hunted on our doorstep.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank him,” Muriel said pointedly.

“I know,” Ginny said, and lowered her head sadly.

“I'm not implying anything,” Muriel said, rolling her eyes. “If you don't want to be with him, you just don't. I mean, you didn't get married— or pregnant, for that matter— for no reason, so…”

Sometimes I wonder, Ginny thought bitterly.

“What I'm saying is that he had no right to expect anything from you. If you care for him only a tenth as much as he cares for your, though, even as a friend, you shouldn't desert him as rapidly as you did when you were teenagers.”

Again, Ginny nodded.

“And if he can't be your boyfriend, maybe he can become your best friend? I mean it's definitely worked between me and Jared.”

“You and—“

“Yeah… And then I found out I wasn't into guys…”

Both women laughed.

***

Nott Estate, England.

“Hogwarts looks like it was so much fun,” Shehzin laughed, going through Romilda Nott's photo album. Around them, the boudoir was decked in lavender and silver tones, with bouquets of white camellias that complemented the embroidered curtains and armchairs. The air smelled faintly of flowers, porcelain, and feminine secrets.

“Oh, it was,” Romilda agreed, her eyes bright with memories from the times when Hogwarts wasn't populated only with pure-blood children.

“And who is this cutie?” Shehzin asked, pointing to a dark-haired young man with obnoxiously round glasses and green eyes.

“Don't let Blaise hear you saying that,” Romilda giggled. “It's Harry Potter. The Slytherins hated him.”

“I'm sure they were jealous of his stunning good looks.”

“Of that, yes, amongst other things,” Romilda said, her eyes glazing over as she suddenly grew more serious. She pensively played with the hem of her robes.

“Well, why didn't you go out with him, then?” Shehzin went on, detesting herself for the ease with which she was pulling Romilda into her trap. “I'm sure you could have gotten any guy you wanted.”

“He had a girlfriend,” Romilda admitted, making a face, and Shehzin could tell she was back to her usual self.

“No way. Which one is she?” Shehzin asked, outraged.

Romilda flipped through a few pages.

“That's her, there, with the orange hair.”

Shehzin was surprised to find Ginevra Malfoy staring at her, her uniquely beautiful features surrounded by a mass of coppery curls. There was a vitality to her exuberance that had abandoned the woman Shehzin knew, but she was surprised that none of the people who had gone to school with her had recognized her.

“She looks pretty enough.”

“Well, the boys certainly thought so,” Romilda said. “By the end of her sixth year she had managed to date Corner, Thomas, and Potter. That's with the last of her ten or eleven brothers still in school; imagine what she could have done to the male population without her overprotective brothers…”

I can imagine, yes, Shehzin thought somberly.

***

London, England.

“I think your son would enjoy Eragon very much. The atmosphere is somewhat similar to Lord of the Rings, but the historical and mythological parallels aren't as complex. It's quite an enjoyable read.”

The woman thanked Ginny, weighed the book suspiciously, but finally decided to buy it. Ginny directed her to the counter, then returned to the pile of books that awaited her. She began placing them on the different shelves, then smirked when a particularly pink cover caught her attention.

“Passion in Venice,” she read, and turned to read the first page. “Andreas thrust into Lucienne with a force only equaled by the love and respect he bore her. Their mingled sweat gleamed like the gold of their wedding bands, and their flesh had the carmine coloration of the most sensual of seashells. Suddenly, a thunderous knock threatened to break down the door. `Oh no!' hissed Lucienne between two groans of pleasure. `It can only be my husband!'” Ginny sighed. “This is rubbish.”

“Perhaps you should try writing something better.”

Ginny wheeled around and was met with Dean's smile, tinted with the perfect mix of humor and sarcasm that had once threatened to cure her from her infatuation with Harry.

“Unfortunately, creation isn't my area of expertise.”

“Procreation, on the other hand…” Dean said, and ducked in time to avoid Passion in Venice.

“Have you come here to torment me?” Ginny asked dramatically. “Page two of the book I just threw at you,” she added when she was met with a look of incredulity.

“No, actually. I've come to make amends—” he said, pretending to kneel.

“So, where are the presents?” Ginny said. “There will be no pardon without presents.” But then she added soberly, “Dean, you don't need to apologize. I shouldn't have come—“

“No,” he stopped her. “No, you should have, and I'm glad you did.”

Ginny ran a hand through her hair, unsure of where this was going. She could tell he was searching for words, and she would have been, too, if she had made a move on a friend and been avoiding her for several days.

“When you're done with work, I'd like you to come with me to my workshop.”

Ginny looked at him oddly, and Dean laughed, feeling the tension dissolve as he did so.

“Don't worry, I won't try anything the father of your children could disapprove of.”

“I'm afraid your mere breathing would fall in that category,” Ginny said glumly.

“He's one of those, then?” Dean asked, a veil of resentment obscuring his eyes. When Ginny nodded he asked, “How did you ever end up with him?”

A flash of hurt rippled across Ginny's face. There was a slight tremor in her chin that, Dean knew, usually accompanied painful memories.

“Never mind,” he said, hugging her gruffly. “I don't need to know. Just stop by my studio later, or whenever you feel like it. There's something I have to show you.”

He kissed her on the forehead and then headed for the exit.

“I'm done in two hours,” Ginny called, eyeing him meaningfully.

Dean nodded. He would be waiting for her by the door of the bookshop in two hours, she knew, with a hot chocolate or chai tea latte— both of which she had developed an addiction to during her cohabitation with Muriel.

***

Amsterdam, Netherlands.

“What do you mean, `Where is Ginevra?'?” Neville asked, surprised by Draco Malfoy's irruption in the lab where he worked.

“I mean precisely what I say, Longbottom,” Draco said slowly, softly. “Is Ginevra with you?”

“Of course not! She's supposed to be with you!” Neville snapped.

“She's also supposed to be my loving wife. It appears she is less and less where and who she is supposed to be.”

“Wait…” Neville suddenly realized that if Malfoy came to him looking for Ginevra, then she had probably blown her cover. Instantly, his tone went from disbelieving to irate. “What did you do to her?”

“Are you willing to swear a wizard's oath that she is not with you and that you do not know where she is?” Draco enunciated clearly.

“I'm not swearing any wizard's oath with you,” Neville said disgustedly.

An instant later, he had Draco's new wand pointed at his forehead, its master's eyes flashing malignantly.

“We aren't at Hogwarts anymore, Malfoy,” Neville spat, “and the war is over. No one's willing to cover for you anymore.”

Draco's expression remained impassible, though a muscle in his jaw ticked.

“I fought my battles then and I fight them now. Tell—me—where—she—is.”

“I don't know where she is,” Neville said. An odd ripple of magic coursed through the two wizards, and Draco understood that the other man wasn't lying.

“Very well, then,” Draco said at last, lowering his wand as smoothly as he had pulled it out. “I trust you will tell me if she does come to you.”

Neville snorted, and Draco noted that he had not given up one inch since the beginning of their encounter. He doubted Ginny's friend would betray her so easily, and so, placidly, he went for the kill.

“Make sure that you don't forget, Longbottom, or a stray Inferius might accidentally cross paths with our lovely Luna Lovegood.”

Fear and concern suddenly suffused Neville's face, and Draco was satisfied to note he hadn't lost his touch. He Apparated away.

***

London, England.

Ginny stared, amazed, at the large paintings that covered every wall, ceiling, and floor in Dean's atelier. The canvases sometimes sat atop each other, thrown carelessly together like heaps of cloth or meat. There was something primal and vibrant in those canvases, something that reached beyond their roughness and the colors that that deprived them of their nudity. Dean's paintings seemed to have captured an aspect of life that Ginny had lost the night her family had been killed, and so, stunned, she breathed in the powerful vitality of his art.

“Are you coming or what?” he called from the depths of his workshop.

“You mean this isn't what you wanted to show me?”

He emerged from behind a humongous, half-painted canvas.

“Uh… No,” he answered, looking puzzled.

She followed him. She was surprised when two wide, golden eyes caught hers. They were like an amber pulsing with life, sizzling with some unspoken amusement, and framed by a set of copper lashes. Beneath them, a constellations of pale freckles sprawled on milky cheekbones.

“Are those—“

“Your eyes? Yes, they are,” Dean answered, not even bothering to look back. “There are a few sketches of you dispersed throughout my study.”

He turned toward her and she could see he was smiling derisively.

“That's part of the reason why my roommates think you were my `high-school sweetheart', as they like to put it.”

“Do I want to know the other parts of the reason?”

“No,” Dean said, and laughed. “I think you know as well as I do that your first love has a hard time letting go of you.” Ginny nodded. “Well, you were just that. Now,” he went on, “this is what I wanted to show you.”

He handed her a small, translucent and clear orb that bloodied as soon as she closed her fingers around it.

“I thought so,” he murmured sadly.

Ginny, feeling a wave of indescribable sadness invading her, stared at the coppery red spirals in the globe.

“What is it?” she asked. “What is it?” she repeated, hearing the shrillness in her voice, but uncertain of what had spurred it.

“It's a memory.”

“Of what?” Ginny hissed.

“The night of April first, nineteen ninety eigh—“

“No!” she said, and gave it back to him, her mouth twisted in a grimace. “Where did you get it? You knew? All this time you knew what happened to them and—?”

“I can't see it,” Dean interrupted her. “I don't know why, but I can't. It was the confession of… of a friend, after he was… enrolled.”

Ginny's face was a mask of disgust and despair.

“A friend?” she snarled.

“He was,” Dean said, softly but firmly, looking her straight in the eye. “And then he did this. The next day he came to me, looking for help, looking for an escape from what he had done. He gave me this, and ran. They found his body four days later, though I think the Death Eaters got to him quite a bit earlier, judging by the state of the corpse.”

Ginny fell to her knees, her mind reeling with horrendous images and thought of what the memory could contain. In a second, Dean was by her side, cradling her against his chest. Again he kissed the top of her head.

“I didn't know what to do with it. I was glad I couldn't see what it contained—seeing you murdered, or worse? I would have killed my friend on the spot. But I didn't, knowing they would take care of that soon enough.” He hugged her fiercely. “And then, a year later, you walk back into my life, with blond hair and hollow eyes and pregnant, and I'm thinking— maybe I can help you? Maybe I can keep you? Maybe you can find it within you to care for me half as much as I love you?” He shook to the rhythm of her sobs. “But you lost something that night, Ginny-love, didn't you? It wasn't your life, but it scarred you like it scarred all the war victims. So, I guess I can't give you comfort, or justifications, and you don't want my love,”—Ginny grumbled something between two snuffles, “—well you don't want my love in the way that I would most want you to have it… But I can give you the truth. I don't know if you want that, either, but now at least you have the choice.”

Ginny gurgled something.

“Gin, there are a lot of things I have always adored about you, but clear elocution was not one of those.”

“The forbidden fruit,” Ginny said sadly, trying to erase her tears with the back of her hand.

“That's one way of seeing it,” Dean conceded. He pulled out a handkerchief and handed it to her. She was grateful that he didn't try to take care of it himself. “Apple of knowledge or not, this is a memory that I felt you were entitled to owning. So, here it is.”

“Thank you,” she said and then, very slowly, she turned her head to face Dean, and kissed him.

***

New York, USA.

The door slammed in Draco's face. He whipped out his wand, snapped “[?…]”, and the door came crashing down, leaving a gaping hole through which he walked with his usual feline grace.

“Granger,” he called, “there really is no point in—“

“Stupefy!”

“Protego!” Draco said immediately, and the spell bounced back. “Immobil temporis,” he added.

New York was silent. Not a single noise rose from the street. Draco quickly found Hermione Granger, half hidden behind the door of her bedroom, immobilized in the instant. “Consciensus,” he said. “Yes, it's Dark Magic,” he added casually, nonplussed by the hatred in the look she gave him as soon as the “Consiensus” spell allowed her to regain her spirits.. “And this must be little Harry Arthur,” he cooed, bending over the cradle where a little boy had been cuddling with a teddy-bear when the spell interrupted his games.

Fear burst into Hermione's eyes like a bomb, blasting her earlier surprise and anger to smithereens.

“Don't worry, I'm not going to hurt your kid…” he said, leaving the sentence unfinished to maximize the effect of his implication. Then, turning from the baby to its mother, he added, “You aren't going to ask me to sit down? This is rather rude of you. Your mummy is a bad mummy, Harry Arthur. She isn't very nice to old school friends.”

Hermione's eyes frenetically darted between her son and Draco, who strolled back to the living room and sat on the couch.

“Mummy and I are going to have a little discussion, Harry Arthur, and seeing as you are so young and innocent, we both feel you should be spared the specifics of this, ah— chat.”

Hermione felt somewhat relieved by the fact that whatever Draco would do, he apparently did not feel like doing in front of her son. Fearing for both their lives, she hoped that he would at least cast a Silencing Charm.

“Mobilicorpus,” Draco said, and Hermione was levitated into the living room where, with a swish of his wand, Draco sat her in an armchair. “Stupefy. Fugit temporis.”

Again, the street's noisy commotion could be heard, accompanied by a piercing wail from the bedroom. Hermione's eyes widened in horror when she saw Draco head for the room, looking annoyed, but the spell kept her immobilized.

“Malfoy, please, don't—“

Harry Arthur stopped crying and Draco stepped out of the room. He sat back on the couch, staring with mild concern at Hermione, whose face glistened with fear and tears.

“What did you do to him?” she hiccupped. “He's just a baby! He—“

“Relax, Granger. I didn't kill him.”

She wasn't convinced, but the flow of tears dwindled.

“You can believe or you can not believe me,” he said coolly. “Either way, I have a few questions for you, and you should know that if you do not answer me truthfully, I will kill him.”

Hermione stopped crying immediately and waited for Draco to name his terms. She wasn't going to risk her son's safety in the event that he was still alive and well. In this situation, there was nothing else she could do, and they both knew it; he was glad she was so prompt to realize it.

“Rennervate,” he said, and Hermione lost the unnatural rigidity conferred by the spell. Regardless, she didn't move so much as a muscle. “I don't suppose I have to warn you against the dangers of trying to attack me…”

Hermione shook her head.

“Excellent. Now, tell me. Is Ginevra with you?”

Astonishment washed over Hermione's face, and Draco had his answer.

“No. Isn't she with y—“

“No, she isn't, or I wouldn't be here, now, would I?” Draco barked, and Hermione sat back in her chair, unwilling to rile him up. “Right. Right…I was hoping….” He seemed at a loss for words. “She's pregnant,” he informed Hermione, looking up at her.

“I know.”

“You gave her that spell.”

It wasn't a question, but Hermione nodded.

“Damn you,” he hissed, and she cast a quick, fearful look in the direction of the bedroom. “Why did you have to meddle into things?”

Hermione didn't answer, unsure of what he was referring to.

“It's what you do, of course. Meddle. Nosy Mudblood,” Draco murmured to himself, suddenly looking very, very tired. “I should kill you for what you both have done to me,” he added, sadly, as if trying to convince himself of the fact. “Why did she come after me?”

“I think you know,” Hermione said softly, unable to stop herself.

“I do, but she doesn't,” Draco said, and there was something in the way he said it, in the way his steely eyes once again found Hermione's, that showed he was back to normal. “Regardless, I have to find her before… I have to find her. If she comes to you, contact me.”

“How?” Hermione asked, unwilling to give her friend in, but placing her son's safety above everything else. She hoped that Ginny would know better than to come to her for help.

“An owl will do.”

Again, Hermione nodded, calming down as she and Malfoy came to an agreement. She realized that he wanted her help as desperately as she wanted Harry Arthur to be safe. And though the turn of events by no means reassured her, she felt that if Ginny stayed clear of her path, Ginny, Harry Arthur, and herself could be alright.

“Very well, then. Don't you dare not follow my instructions.”

“I won't.”

“Good evening, then,” Draco said.

He rose, bowed slightly, and Apparated. Hermione, a new surge of anxiety suddenly gripping her, ran to the bedroom. She found Harry Arthur animatedly twittering to a flock of emerald green and silver birds. With a sigh of relief she fell to the ground, and, clinging to the cradle's bars, she tried to organize her thoughts.

***

London, England.

“I don't suppose this was a `Please ravish me on the spot' kiss'?” Dean asked when Ginny pulled her head away from his.

She shook her head slowly, the small smile on her lips brought by memories of very sweet moments spent in Dean's company. He seemed to understand, and simply pulled her against him, paradoxically taking this kiss as the very proof that she cared for him only as a friend.

“If you want, I can leave you here until you know what to do with that memory,” Dean went on. “All you have to do is turn off the—“

“No, I'm coming with you. I'm not sure I'm ready to… for… you know,” Ginny said, and he nodded.

Dean helped Ginny to her feet and ushered her toward the door. The last glimpse she had of his studio was of her painted eyes being suddenly engulfed in darkness.

***

Zabini Estate, England.

Blaise Zabini crossed out the name of Neville Longbottom, recalling how he had reacted to Draco's confronting him. Then he crossed out Michael Corner's name, for the man, much like Oliver Wood, had given a very satisfying answer once drugged with Veritaserum: Ginevra was not with either of these men. Immediately below, Dean Thomas' name shone in Shehzin's delicate handwriting. Blaise had the distinct but unpleasant certitude that due to the man's history with Ginevra, Draco would want to pay him a visit in person.

A/N: I feel like the line “I don't suppose this was a `Please ravish me on the spot' kiss” is an adaptation from something I read/heard before, though I have absolutely no idea where. If you know what I am talking about, please do not be offended, and tell me who created it so that I can give the required credit. Thanks!

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23. The terrible doings of Draco Malfoy

April 1999

London, England.

“So all you have to do is press the button and the box will grow warm?” Ginny asked, smiling in wonder.

“Which planet are you from?” Mark said.

“A very archaic one, populated with wizards who think magic can get anything and everything done,” Dean said, and he smiled, though his eyes remained serious.

“Of course…, wizards.” Mark rolled his eyes. “Well, wizards or no, if you press this button, the microwave will turn on. You usually want to set a time and temperature so that you don't burn what you're cooking.”

Ginny eyed the microwave curiously.

“I think I'll just stick to the stobe to heat the milk.”

“Stove,” Dean murmured, smirking.

“Stove, right,” she corrected herself.

But when Mark had abandoned them and Dean busied himself looking for the powdered cocoa, she surreptitiously placed a cup of milk in the microwave, repeated what Mark had showed her, and watched gleefully as her cup slowly rotated, emitting a low zoom.

“Neat, isn't it?” Dean asked.

“It's brilliant! We should definitely learn how to use it.”

“Well, isn't that exactly what you're doing?”

“It is, but… I mean… Everyone.”

“You mean the high and mighty pure-blood community.”

“Them too, yes.”

Dean averted his gaze, his brow knitted in barely repressed anger. Reminders of the world he had been banished from never failed to make him livid. Ginny placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Why didn't you go away to some country where you can still do magic?” she asked softly.

“This is my country, Ginny. This is where my family is, and my friends, and though most of them are Muggles, they are dearer to me than magic. But I can never forget that a world is being closed off to me just because my blood isn't pure,” he spat.

“They're dying out, you know,” she interrupted, her voice sad and mechanic as she allowed her thoughts to wander off. Dean looked at her, surprised. “The Harpy Pox decimated quite a few suspected Death Eaters, and left others without a trace of magical power. What ravages Voldemort did to our lives—”Dean shuddered, “—the Harpy Pox and inbreeding are doing to magic.”

“You mean that without us—?”

“Without Muggle-borns and half-bloods, the Wizarding community is bound to rot, along with its disgusting principles and laws.”

Dean smiled bitterly.

“What a consolation.”

“I'm sorry,” Ginny said, apologizing for something she wasn't responsible for, but was doing nothing to prevent.

Dean was about to say something when the bell rang.

“I'll get it,” Dean sighed loud enough for his roommates to hear, even though, at that point, he couldn't have said for sure if there was anyone else in the house. “Oh, and don't burn yourself with the chocolate. It's been heating for a while.”

Ginny cursed under her breath, attempting to shut the microwave off as Dean exited the room, laughing. When the light of the Muggle contraption turned off, she pulled its door open, and managed to extract her mug of hot chocolate with unmarred satisfaction. There wafted from the rich liquid a sugary, comforting smell that reminded her of the hot chocolate her mum used to make. Ginny closed her eyes, humming a tune curiously similar to an old nursery rhyme she had always known, and not for the first time since she had begun living with Dean, she felt at peace.

They were swift, those moments, rapid and fleeting like the shimmer of a setting sun across a puddle of rain, but they had become common enough that Ginny had begun contemplating the possibility of remaining in London. The three peacefully elapsed weeks allowed her to believe that even all-powerful Draco Malfoy could not hunt her down in Muggle London.

I guess he isn't as invincible as he always seemed, she thought frequently, and though the thought was accompanied with relief, it never lacked a hint of regret. She would think back to their honeymoon, or Blaise and Shehzin's wedding, or that time where he had taken her for an afternoon in Venice after she had expressed her affection for carnival masks… She had allowed herself to imagine that he cared for her, even if a little bit, though through recent events she had come to realize that he had merely been doing his duty as her husband. Never one to eschew his obligations, he had gone from dedicated husband to relentless tormentor as soon as she had given him the chance, revealing, Ginny felt, the true nature of his character.

“Dean?” she called absently, lost in her thoughts.

When he didn't answer, she shrugged and made her way to the living room. She placed her mug of burning—she had checked, it was definitely burning—hot chocolate on the console, and then flopped down on the deep, cushiony armchair next to it. She closed her eyes, running her hands along the dome formed by her belly. There came a soft thump from within, and she smiled. A few minutes later it came again, shortly followed by a stronger, louder one.

“Looks like you woke up your brother,” she murmured drowsily.

A faint smile crept on her lips, followed by a more profound sensation of calm and safety. And, as it sometimes happened to her, a sudden but certain thought took root in her mind. She stood up cautiously, walked up to the first floor where she shared the room with Muriel, and from a colorful hatbox that lurked below her bed she extracted the globe Dean had given her earlier that week. As soon as her skin came in contact with it, the orb's clear depths turned red, as they had when she had first touched it. Ginny sighed, but her resolve did not waver. She headed back downstairs where her hot cocoa still awaited her, sat in the sofa, and wondered how to see the memory.

It sat in her lap, the red liquid inside it swirling too languidly for it to be blood, despite its rather tell-tale color. Ginny looked at it curiously, unsure whether to shake it, then looked for an inscription that might help her. However, the sphere's surface was unmarked, giving her no indication whatsoever as to how she could access the memory. She had decided to resort to her wand and was standing up to go fetch it when a flash of light blinded her.

“That night,” came a voice, “Antonin and Rabastan dismantled the wards set about the house we attacked with some difficulty. I had never been on one of these excursions before, but I could tell, by their muttered curses and the annoyance the others exhibited, that none were used to such a resistance.”

The wards placed around The Burrow vanish, leaving the asymmetrical house looking all the more fragile. Rabastan Lestrange nods, then places the mask on his face. Casually, as though they have all the time in the world, the Death Eaters stroll through the garden, ducking when one of the gnarled trees' branches stoops too low, eyeing their surroundings with caution but without fear.

“We understood that the Weasleys were not wizards to be trifled with, but the Dark Lord had promised us horrors beyond belief should we fail, so that we would have been more eager to die at the hands of some red-haired matron than to go back to Him and admit we hadn't done as ordered.”

It's about an hour past midnight. The night is bright and clear like the cold, so that should one of the Weasleys cast a glance outside, he would see the shifting shadows and be warned of their attackers' arrival. Unfortunately, they are too busy watching amusedly as Fred and George unwrap their last presents. George's surprised exclamation upon opening his twin's gift is not loud enough to cover the loud crack that accompanies the door's splitting open following Elbert Lang's spell.

As was planned earlier that afternoon, the Death Eaters rush into the house. They have seen the floor plans of the scraggly little house. They know their way about. One group moves directly from the kitchen to the living room, while the others move to exit the kitchen by its backdoor in an attempt to cut off retreat to the staircase.

“You'd think that living in a house protected by the Fidelius Charm and being in the process of celebrating some birthday, they wouldn't have been carrying their wands.”

Except they are carrying their wands, all of them. Bill is the first one to react when he hears the door to their house being forced open; he runs toward the staircase, knowing that Fleur went to bed immediately after her brothers-in-law blew their candles. Arthur, his face broken down from the realization that only Percy can be held accountable for the Death Eaters' presence here, casts a spell at the first hooded man to enter the living room, and a second, and a third spell when the previous ones do not find their mark.

“The one who ran for the stairs didn't utter a word as we cornered him. We didn't know what he was doing, then, and when we understood, in a way we didn't understand: why hadn't he called to warn her? To tell her to get away?”

Fred throws the set of ingredients Charlie smuggled back from Romania in the face of one Death Eater, who haughtily levitates it away, only to be hit by George's spell. Ron and Charlie have instinctively moved in front of their mother, who roars that she won't let those monsters get to her little boys, shoves both her sons away and throws a vicious curse past her husband's weakening form. Bill's cry of alarm remains stuck in his throat when he finds three Death Eaters blocking his way; by now Fleur will have heard the commotion, and fled, he thinks frantically, and calling her would only draw the men's attention to her existence.

“It took the three of us to get rid of the one with the scarred face. He managed to kill Alecto in the process, but in the end he, too, had to be disposed of. `One!' came a cry from the living room, shortly followed by my call of, `Two!'.”

The living room, small and cramped, has become like a jungle of flailing limbs, swishing arms, and spells. One of the lamps crashes to the floor when Molly's body falls atop the table to one of the Death Eaters' cry of “Three!”. Ron sees the thread of blood at the corner of his mother's mouth and launches himself at the culprit, surprising him with a series of inconsequential spells. Fire from the lamp laps at the curtains.

“By then we had killed three. They were about to get even.”

Ron grabs the Death Eater by the shoulders and slams her against the wall, breaking her neck on the spot, then shoves her into the window that shatters like ice. Haggard, he leaves the woman's body impaled on the glass shards and turns to see Fred hit by an “Avada Kedavra”. Screaming like a mad man— from grief or anger, none would ever know— George takes over, defending his brother's dead body as though he were still alive.

“That's when we saw her. She stood at the top of the stairs with her wand drawn, though it's amazing she could even see us given her enormous belly. She saw the Weasley's body crumpled at the bottom of the stairs, the one with the scars, and, given the look of murderous fury she gave us, we half expected her to fly down at us and claw our eyes out.”

And that is indeed almost what Fleur does, except that one of the Death Eaters' spells wraps itself around her feet and makes her trip. Without so much as a whisper she tumbles down the flight of stairs, landing atop her husband with a lifeless but serene face, her neck and left leg tilted at an odd angle.

“I called, `Five!' just as I saw Antonin fall across the doorstep, but I was more preoccupied by the girl's death than by anything else. We hurried upstairs to find the last brother.”

A nasty, feminine voice sends a “Sectusempra” in George's way. He slides slowly, almost unbelievingly, to the ground, resting across his father's body. The woman charms a knife from the kitchen and, with the slightly hysteric cackle that is Bellatrix and Bellatrix' alone, slits George's throat. “Six!” she calls triumphantly. Ron and Charlie, backed into different corners of the living room, are too busy defending their lives to notice that they are the last ones standing. On his left, Charlie feels the warmth of a rapidly growing fire. The Death Eater facing him senses his alarm, laughs, then shouts, “Petrolio!”(1). Charlie barely has time to register what awaits him; already he is ablaze and burning fast, though he manages to run the dagger his two-months girlfriend gave him through the Death Eater's retreating back as he shouts, “Seven!”.

“It took four of us to take the last one down. They said he had been Harry Potter's best friend, and I had no difficulty believing it when I saw the damage he did.”

Ron knows he has but a few minutes to live now that the spell hit him. He thinks that he was a fool to listen to Hermione's explaining anoxia's effects, because he now knows what to expect, and yet he feels oddly calm. Around him his family has succumbed, and for them as well he feels calm. He'd fallen on his knees and he now falls flat on the floor, sensation of his limbs progressively abandoning him. Fire engulfs his field of vision and he understands why the remaining Death Eaters were so prompt to leave. He thinks sadly about Percy, not even registering the fact that he betrayed them, and Ginny, about how distraught they will be. He can only hope she won't do anything silly, like she always does when people hurt the ones she love. And then he thinks about Hermione, and everything goes black.

“Needless to say, the Dark Lord was not happy when he learned that we had killed everyone before extracting information from them. We hadn't counted on Percival Weasley's not being present, though this became obvious when we learned that he had been their Secret Keeper. Our Lord was also delighted to hear of the girl's death. `Serves the little fool right,' he said, though we could never understand what made her, rather than the others, a little fool. In the end, I'm afraid that we were all fools, mere puppets, to Lord Voldemort—`as flies to wanton boys,' once said some Muggle poet. And flies aren't particularly well known for their out-of-the-ordinary life expectancy.”

Ginny emerged from the memory feeling like it had been part of her all along. Something in the way her family had fought was so uniquely Weasley that she was unable to feel anything but appeased by the way they all found death that night. A shiver coursed through her at the thought of what they would have had to endure had the Death Eaters succeeded in capturing one or two of her brothers alive. She shuddered again as she recalled the half-open presents and almost entirely disappeared birthday cake on the living room's coffee table, if she remembered correctly, and she was certain she did as there was no way she would ever forget anything that happened that night, she had Flooed to her home less than an hour before it was attacked, on the stroke of midnight.

Her brothers had been delighted to learn that she was doing well for herself, and she could barely hide her relief upon seeing them all together, safe, and happy despite the dark times, celebrating the twins' birthday as though there wasn't a war raging on about them. They had kept the call brief so as to save some Floo powder, but the hint of tears in Molly's eyes had assured Ginny that it was enough; for a few minutes, the family had felt complete.

It was probably one of the moments we all felt safer and happier than we had in weeks, and then reality caught up with us, Ginny thought sadly, wiping the tears that dribbled naturally down her cheeks. She wasn't blind enough, however, to feel, as she had upon learning of The Burrow' destruction, as though her life were about to end, smothered in the flicker of an instant that it took for her entire family to be slaughtered. Her two boys made their presence too obvious, too often, for her to think of anything but them—of what life would be, watching them grow up, watching them learn, become adventurous toddlers, curious children, ill-tempered teens, and, finally, mature and kind men. In Ginny's mind they were— much like Harry Arthur— the proof that her loved ones lived on.

So Ginny dried her tears attentively, downed her now warm chocolate in a few gulps, and made for her room. She needed to send Hermione a letter to tell her what had happened, and reassure her. Moreover, she was extremely curious to see if the stamp and mailbox would be sufficient for Hermione to obtain it, for she couldn't bring herself to believe Dean that it was all it took for a letter to find its intended recipient.

“Dean?” she called, wondering where the young man had disappeared while she viewed the memory sphere (2).

Distantly, she recalled that the bell had rung as she was trying to use the microwave, so she went to check if perhaps he was still with the visitor. She was startled, upon entering the kitchen, to find that the temperature had considerably diminished, though the windows weren't open. She progressed to the corridor leading to the entryway, and though it was dark, she could tell, from the rays of auburn light cast here and there, that the door was slightly ajar. Through the opening filtered a sharp, bitterly cold breeze, and Ginny moved to close the door when she saw what kept it from opening completely: curled up between the wall and the door, apparently unconscious, was Dean.

“Holy shit,” she hissed, unknowingly employing one of Muriel's preferred expressions.

She hurried to his side and bit back another curse when she managed to get a good look at him. His eyes were closed by large, red bruises; his swollen lips remained half-open to reveal bloodied teeth; the entire skin of his face, and— she supposed— the rest of his body, was of this dark, ugly purple that appears after blows were delivered. Ginny ran her hands along his body, her eyes closed, remembering with ease what she had been taught back at Durmstrang. She probed his body for broken bones, and was relieved to find none.

Then, utterly unconscious of her situation as she failed to wonder why Dean was in such a lamentable state, Ginny started alleviating the pain his body irradiated by draining it out of him. A few instants later, she felt him stir. She carried on, breathing more freely as his moments began to become more coordinated and she saw his puffy eyes try to open.

“Ginny?” he asked, softly, her name distorted by his deformed lips.

“Shhhh,” she whispered. “Stay calm, I'll—“

“No,” Dean said, grabbing her arms as he tried to sit up. “Go,”—he coughed, and droplets of blood trickled down his chin—“go.”

“But—“

“Go. He's after you,” he managed to croak, and fear pooled into Ginny's stomach as she began to realize what was happening. “Go,” he repeated, and pushed her feebly away.

Only then did Ginny realize that she was in about as much danger as Dean himself, if not more. She stood up as lithely as her bulk allowed her, listening avidly for a noise that would betray the intruder's presence. When none came, walking as quickly as she could while remaining silent, Ginny crossed the kitchen and the living room. The penumbra established by dusk filled the house with prune and copper shadows, and the young woman could only hope that they would dissimulate her as efficiently as they appeared to be concealing the intruder.

On the first floor, she found her room bathed in darkness, but she knew it by heart. Hurriedly, she reached for the drawers where she kept money, clothes, and the “Guide to Muggle London” she had purchased, shrunk to fit in a baby's fist. She shoved the penny-sized container in her pocket.

“It figures that you would favor blonde rather than the vulgar Weasley red, but brown? I always knew you were a commoner.”

Ginny didn't even turn to see who had spoken, nor where he was: she ran for the door. It slammed shut right before she could reach it, and she heard the faint click of a lock, even though she was certain there was no such thing on this door. She whirled around, facing the corner from which had risen the frigidly grave voice of her husband.

“Did Thomas buy you these clothes, or can only your pitiful taste be blamed for the acquisition of that Muggle dress?” he drawled on, and a shiver of anxiety slid down her spine. Draco Malfoy never lowered himself to proffer banalities, and she did not understand the almost gleeful and definitely deceptive incongruity of his words.

“What did you do to him?” she murmured.

Outside, the street's lampposts suddenly turned on, and a ray of white light shot through the bedroom, revealing Draco's figure seated in a chair. Of his face, only the bottom was illuminated, and his lips twisted into a satisfied, predatory grin.

“Nothing that he didn't deserve.”

“How dare you—” she snapped, forgetting yet again where she was and who she was speaking to as a spark of Gryffindor audacity surged through her.

Draco raised his hand slightly, in warning.

“Nothing you are not responsible for,” he added, the smile gone from his mouth, grim lines etched into his face.

Ginny glanced about her cautiously, mentally cursing herself for not wearing her wand with her at all times; she couldn't remember where she had left it.

“Looking for this?” Draco asked, pulling her wand from the folds of his robes. “I think I will be keeping it for a while. I can't imagine that you would mind, though, seeing how eager you are to live as a Muggle,” he spat. “Now, sit down.”

Not feeling mutinous in the very least, but too overwhelmed by Draco's presence and the consequences she was likely to face, Ginny didn't obey.

“Ginevra,” he said, softly, as though he were speaking to a child, “I said sit down.”

So she did, chilled to the bone by fear, the regret and tenderness she had interlaced with memories of him washed away in an instant. The bed sagged slightly under her weight.

“Now, now, you won't be comfortable there, at the edge of the bed. Come closer,” he ordered kindly.

Ginny inched toward Draco, and, with his hand, he motioned very delicately for her to come closer, and closer, and closer, until she sat directly in front of him, feeling like she was going to fall over from sheer terror. With the lamppost's light streaming through the window and right into her face, she couldn't see him very well, and squinted a little bit. In an instant, he had gotten up and grabbed her by the chin, bringing her face barely a centimeter away from his as he loomed above her.

Only then could she see his eyes, and regretted her temporary blindness. They were burning with an anger so ravaging that his irises were of a pale, platinum gray, nearing the white of metal when it has been heated in the forge. Ginny tried to pull her head back but he held her firmly in place.

“If you ever run from me again, you deceitful, conniving little witch, I will have you watch as I smash Harry Arthur into a wall before his mother's eyes, then kindly ask Crabbe and Goyle to have their way with the Mudblood before killing her as well,” Draco enunciated. “Then I will have Longbottom skinned alive, Lovegood raped and eviscerated, and Thomas… Thomas…” Draco smiled slowly, creepily. “Well, I don't know yet,” he admitted candidly, “but revenge is a dish best served cold, don't you think?”

Ginny nearly fainted with the understanding of what her friends risked because of her, though if she had been able to exert any objectivity at this point, she might have admitted to fearing for her own existence as well. The fact that Draco hadn't mentioned what he would do to her did nothing to assuage her alarm. And though the sight of them filled her with apprehension, Ginny couldn't bring herself to tear her eyes from Draco's, bright like silver from seething anger; his fingers, locked firmly around her chin, further prevented her from gazing away. She swallowed nervously.

Lost in the contemplation of Ginny's frightened eyes, Draco inadvertently relaxed. There was no explaining the relief he felt finding her here, safe, unchanged down to the last freckle on her cheeks, other than by comparing it to the satisfaction he had experienced as he beat Dean Thomas to a pulp; it was blissful. In a gesture that would have been almost tender had the context been different, Draco ran his thumb across Ginny's lower lip, marveling at how plump it was under his skin, at how much he had missed capturing her yielding lips in his, at how much he wanted to do it now. He felt her lip tremble. He had the grace to realize it was from sheer fright rather than desire. He got a hold of himself.

“You are going to come home with me,” he said softly. At that point “a freezing cell with no light, food once a week, and water every two days” sounded more alluring than “home”, but Ginny tactfully refrained from either commenting or reacting. “You are going to act as you did before all of this happened, as the woman Draco Malfoy married should behave. You will bare my sons. You will raise them. And every day that comes you will pray that I forget who you are, what you did, and where your friends live.”

There was nothing that Ginny could have said, nor anything that she wanted to say, at that point. She knew she was tied to this man by chains stronger than those that bind a slave to his master.

“Am I understood?” he asked, loosening his grip on her face so as to allow her some movement.

Slowly she nodded, looking away. Slipping a finger under her chin again to make her face him, Draco looked straight into her eyes.

“Yes?” he asked.

“Yes,” Ginny croaked, voice painfully finding its way out of her throat.

“Impeccable,” he said coldly, and rose.

He offered her a hand to help her stand, and she did not have the impudence to refuse it. He enfolded her in her arms— purely for the sake of Apparating them both safely to Malfoy Manor, of course— when a thought struck Ginny. And, despite her instinct of preservation, she was imprudent enough to give it due attention.

“What about Dean?” she asked in a voice she wished didn't sound so squeaky.

She felt Draco's arms tense around her and would have kicked herself, but she had been around Harry, Hermione, and Ron long enough to know that when Gryffindor bravery kicked in there was no ignoring it.

“Who?” Draco demanded, eyeing her intently, a significative and rather ferocious grin on his lips.

Ginny swallowed, hoped that Dean would forgive her, and buried her head in Draco's shoulder to avoid his glare. He smirked, feeling at peace with himself despite what he had inflicted to all those remotely close to Ginevra: he had the well-founded certitude that there was nowhere she would go now to escape him. With the soothing knowledge that she was his and his alone, he Apparated the two of them away.

(1) This comes from my knowledge of French (though I'm sure it is probably derived from Latin, or maybe Greek, what with “petr” meaning stone and “olio” meaning oil). “Petrole” is pretty much oil (the kind we use to burn, not to cook).

(2) Memory spheres are part of the game of Final Fantasy X, I believe. I decided that a Death Eater on the run wouldn't bother with a Pensieve, but that a memory sphere seemed like a fairly decent way to make a confession.

A/N: I'm not sure that in such a situation credit should be given, because I never know to which extent influences should be noted. I wrote the scene between Draco and Ginny willing to create an atmosphere similar to the one in Gladiator, when Commodus ensures that Lucilla will obey him by menacing her son. There was a way the darkness played around his face, a coldness and cruelty that also contained a hint of desperation, of need, that chilled me. I hope that I have done it justice.

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Chapter 24: Narcissa Black-Malfoy

April 1999

Yell-o-brik Road, Stonehenge City.

“—and with my husband and future family to support me, I have decided to stop hiding my true identity. I am tired of the deceptions it entailed, though I understand they were for my protection. I can only be grateful to Draco and Lady Malfoy for agreeing to the masquerade.”

Under Draco's seemingly tender gaze, Ginny cast a spell on herself. Her blonde hair, neatly pulled into a chignon, unfurled itself from the hairdo and curled in its original, elastic waves. Ginny shot an indescribable look at Draco, who merely nodded, ignoring the mute plea in her eyes: if they went through with this there was no going back, and they both knew it. He watched her attentively, careful to appear to all satisfied but aloof when he felt like his world might disintegrate any moment now. He hadn't felt this anxious since Lord Voldemort had assigned him his first mission, when he had realized that his life and those of his parents were at stake and of little importance to the man who yielded power over them. As the Dark Lord once, she held the meaning of his existence in his hands; that, alone, was enough to justify all his actions.

“I am Ginevra Molly Weasley Malfoy,” Ginny enounced placidly as she cast an additional spell on herself. A rich auburn color sprang from her roots into the mass of her hair, framing her tired features with a crown of red curls. “Heir to the Weasley bloodline, consort to Lord Malfoy, and bearer of the heirs to the Malfoy and Weasley bloodlines,” she added, employing formulas older than she knew and that had been coldly dictated by Narcissa. “Thank you, and have a good day.”

“That will be all,” Draco said as he draped a protective arm around Ginny.

She buried her face in his shoulder, hoping to avoid the crackle of the photographers' flashes. A fuzzy noise rose from the crowd assembled in front of the new Ministry as words of surprise turned into questions, hypotheses morphed into conclusions, and gossip flared. Lord and Lady Malfoy ascended the marble steps that lead them back into the shadows of the Ministry, seemingly untouched by the inquiring glances wizards stepping out of the building shot them. They made an oddly beautiful couple, he with his sharp and elegant features that seemed stolen from statues of the Classical era, she with the vivid hair and bulging stomach that appeared to draw the life from her, so pale and tired did she look.

Draco directed his wife toward the room that had been reserved for them. Narcissa and Izha having decided earlier that day to visit an exposition of Pre-Columbian artifacts, Draco had ensured that Ginny would have a place to rest as they waited for the two women. The room was small and soberly decorated, though a wide window and fat armchairs made it more comfortable than appeared at first glance. Ginny stood by the entrance regally, her back so straight one could have placed a ruler against it and found it perfectly aligned. She bore the distant, polite smile that had graced her features ever since her return to Malfoy Manor. Draco, unnerved by it though he would rather have proclaimed himself Harry Potter's number one fan than admitted it, pulled an armchair back for her. Obediently she took her seat, folded her hands on her lap, and stared at the console on the wall opposite of her.

“I'm proud of you,” Draco said softly as he placed his hands on her shoulders, and he meant it, for gratitude was not a word of the Malfoy dictionary and therefore found other means to exist.

From the way she flinched, he sensed that she had perceived the truth in his statement. Her shoulders relaxed for an instant, and he thought—perhaps even hoped—that she would turn toward him and ask him why he had said that, what he meant, and how could he be proud of her for doing something she had no choice but to do. But again she sat up and turned her head so that all he could see was her neck and the way her red curls coiled at the nape of it. He felt that Ginny Weasley had never been less herself than she was now, despite the public announcement and the hue of her hair; and while he understood that this was the price to pay for her being now irrevocably bound to him, that rationalization filled him with bitterness.

“Mother and Izha will be here shortly,” he added when the silence stretched between them, rich with the emptiness their lives and decisions had allowed them to carve.

Ginny had never known an instant of silence in her years growing up at The Burrow. Hogwarts had taught her the pleasures and the dangers of solitude; Durmstrang had revealed its usefulness, its capacity to help one replenish oneself and plan. The loneliness Ginny now immersed herself in was devoid of emotion, of rationalization, of thoughts whatsoever; it was the mute immobility some butterflies can impose to their limbs, and by which if they stand still long enough, they can merge with their surroundings, and escape alive. All that mattered to Ginny now was just that: her friends had to live; her sons had to live; and so she, too, had to live.

Draco removed his hands from Ginny's tense shoulders, holding back a sigh of fatigue and resignation.

“I have invited Blaise and Shehzin for dinner tomorrow night,” he said at last, annoyed at the childish impulses that made him feel he needed to bridge the silence.

She didn't say anything.

“Ginevra…” he murmured in a voice that could have been tinged by warning and tiredness alike.

“That will be lovely, I'm sure,” Ginny said primly.

Draco resisted the urge to roll his eyes at her distant politeness.

“Thank you,” she added, incapable of refusing herself the pleasure of infusing her recognition with a hint of sarcasm.

She never found out how pleased Draco was by this minuscule sign of mockery because he was not one to betray relief, and because at that moment the doors of the boudoir opened before Narcissa and Izha.

“—notice their command of gold-plating spells?” Izha was saying. “I can't believe we are still unable to reproduce them!”

“I doubt wizards today are interested in such fine elements,” Narcissa observed, her countenance changing noticeably as she noticed the back of Ginny's head. “Vulgarity and commonness have invaded our lives with an ease I find rather disturbing.”

Draco glared at Narcissa, all the while grateful that Ginny couldn't see his reaction: she needed not know about the fight he and Narcissa had had, during which the elder woman had most vehemently opposed Ginny's return to the Manor. Only the pain of betrayal could account for Narcissa's unexpectedly violent demands, which had ranged from “sending Miss Weasley to Azkaban where she belongs” to “decapitating her and have the house elves burry her body in the park”. Draco hadn't seen his mother lose her temper as she had that day since his father's death. He had stood firm, and Narcissa had been expressing her discontentment ever since.

The Malfoy matriarch merely smiled at her son's frown, pursing her lips like a cat that has just managed to drink some milk from its master's cup without getting caught. Izha eyed them all calmly, as always, imbued with an eerie air of knowledge and acceptance. So cautious in her choice of words and mild in her actions that she passed for timid to all the British wizards who had met her, she nonetheless had the capacity to exude a cool wisdom that managed to keep Narcissa's increasingly mercurial temper in check. In this situation, however, it took neither discernment nor sagacity to perceive the explosive state of things.

“I trust you had an enjoyable time, then?” Draco asked politely, daring his mother to push her uncustomary rudeness further. Not one to irk her son when she knew of his tense mood, Narcissa quickly regained the domain of acceptability.

“We did indeed. They had a remarkable collection of artifacts. I haven't seen such a display since the exposition on Japanese witchcraft, back in nineteen ninety two.”

“I heard that the one on Babylonian deities was quite appreciable, as well,” Izha pointed out.

“Nonsense,” Narcissa immediately countered, and she seemed about to engage into an argument when Izha gave her a meaningful look, followed by a glance toward Ginny, whose profile revealed closed eyes and a smooth, if very faint, breathing. Unsure of why she allowed the younger woman to dictate the course of her actions with her subtle hints and sage demeanor, Narcissa nonetheless relented. “Perhaps we should go,” she added at last. “Ginevra appears tired.”

At the mention of her name, Ginny seemed pulled from her torpor.

“Oh, I'm fine,” she said softly.

The glare Narcissa shot her held no complacence, and Draco nodded subtly, acknowledging Izha's suggestion. He offered Ginny his arm. She hesitated before taking it, forgetting the ease with which she had allowed him to protectively hug her, earlier; while her instincts pushed her to accept his marks of concern and perhaps even affection, the memory of what he had done to Dean and what he had promised rarely failed to keep her in line, vis-à-vis Draco but also herself. She managed to keep her emotions at bay, but every hesitation was an additional breath of hope for Draco, whose eyes, predatory and calculating, never left her.

As the four of them exited the room, two men, a little bit taller than Draco and quite bulkier, fell into step with them. Their faces were smooth and exceedingly common, so similar in fact that they could have been twins, without the glaring resemblance twins usually exhibit. Everything about them breathed inconspicuousness, and that made Ginny nervous.

“Who are they?” she whispered, staring straight ahead.

“Body guards,” Draco answered smoothly. “With the declaration you just made, it's better if you stayed out of harm's way for a while, and they'll guaranty that.”

“You're having me followed?” Ginny hissed. “Isn't my word enough?”

“In other circumstances I'd retort that no, it isn't, but in this case, it isn't your word I'm concerned about. You just revealed that you're the last heir to one of the most ancient pure-blood families and bearing the sons of the handsomest male in all of Great Britain; that's bound to make a good deal of people curious, jealous, if not downright angry.”

Narcissa smiled knowingly, not so critical in her judgment of Draco's vanity as Izha, who rolled her eyes and snickered in a rather undignified way.

“You're paranoid,” Ginny muttered, although she had to admit he probably had a point.

“Think of Pansy, love,” he retorted casually, and felt Ginny tense. It wasn't until he inadvertently added, “Not to mention Aunt Bella,” that her face fell and she pulled her hand from where it rested in the crook of his arm.

In front of them, Narcissa, as if sensing a disruption in the atmosphere, stopped and turned around, slowly, her face a carefully composed mask of neutrality. Ginny stepped back, eyes wide with anger, as her memory replayed the night of her family's death and “Aunt Bella”'s unforgivable role in it.

“She didn't—“ Narcissa began, but Ginny didn't give her a chance to go on.

“Don't,” she said flatly, her entire persona such an embodiment of revulsion that Narcissa was taken aback. “I saw it. Don't even try.”

Not for the first time since Lucius had carefully reordered their lives so that they may recover from Voldemort's reign, Narcissa had to face the troubling legacy of war. The certitude with which Ginny uttered these words did not push her to wonder how the younger woman had “seen it”, though if the fact that she had been civil to Bellatrix during their earlier interactions was any indication, something had happened during her escape to make her acquire this disturbing new piece of knowledge.

So Narcissa did what she had to do, and, despite her recent aversion for Ginny, neglected to defend her sister. A part of her knew already that Bella had not risen to the highest ranks of Voldemort's followers out of amiability or luck. She had simply chosen not to acknowledge these disconcerting possibilities about her sister's past. Unfortunately, she could not face Ginevra again without having heard from her sister the exact implications of her daughter-in-law's words. She quickly walked away from her startled son, his livid wife, and the ever-impassible Izha.

Draco turned to Ginny and wordlessly beckoned her closer. She once again looped her arm around his but stared straight ahead, chin high and eyes glossed over with tears. They headed for the Apparition gates.

***

Lestrange Estate.

Narcissa tossed her ermine-lined cloak to the house-elf as soon as she set foot into her sister's home. The Lestrange manor was not nearly as impressive nor as refined as the Malfoy one, all heavy stones, protruding beams and thick, wooden doors. It nestled cozily in the dense forest that covered the estate, pulsing with the Dark Magic its inhabitants practiced regularly. Naricssa had never felt more ill at ease than she did that afternoon, as though the shadows and coarseness she had once found outlandish but unthreatening had suddenly turned into the reminiscence of darker events.

“I'm in the parlor,” came Bellatrix' rich drawl, magnified by a spell. “And Rufee, bring us tea.”

The house-elf scrambled away, leaving Narcissa to direct herself through the manor. The dark corridors were nothing to Malfoy Manor's dimly lit ones, and each step she took resonated against the cold, tiled floor. The four panels of Botticelli's “Tale of Nastagio degli Onesti” (1) lined the walls, infusing the entire walk toward the parlor with an elegant and artistic gore that never failed to sicken Narcissa. She felt a cold sense of dread seeping into her, and acquired the certitude that the visit she was about to make to her sister held more significance than the friendly tea-conversations they usually had.

“Did you know that she was a Weasley?” Bellatrix asked as soon as Narcissa had entered the boudoir, decked in wine-red and gold tapestries.

She was sitting languorously on an ottoman, her heavy, black hair thrown negligently on one shoulder, her hooded eyes calmly taking in her visitor's appearance. Her older sister was the only woman of nearly fifty Narcissa knew who was able to look stunningly appealing and threatening at the same time. There was an air of raw, powerful magnetism about her that had stopped impressing Narcissa a while ago but that, once in a while, still managed to surprise her. Now happened to be one of those moments, an instance that could have proved dramatic had Narcissa not been perfectly accustomed to dealing with Blacks, Malfoys, and the cohorts of their acquaintances and emerging alive.

“Yes, I did,” Narcissa answered coolly.

“Come, now, Cissy. I've known you long enough to know when you're lying.”

“Is that so?” Narcissa retorted, her smirk matching her sister's. “You forget that you are referring to years when you still took the time to preoccupy yourself whether I was lying or not. Back in the days when you wanted to figure out where Andromeda hid her candy, who I liked, or whether I was truthful to the Dark Lord—but since then? No, it's been a while since you could tell.”

Bellatrix frowned regally, in a gesture that was as much a tentative to dissimulate her displeasure as it was an acknowledgement of what her sister had just declared.

“Someone's got her knickers in a bunch, it would appear,” she purred.

Narcissa burst out laughing, feeling oddly liberated.

“I've got my knickers in a bunch? Bella, you were still wearing diapers that your knickers were already in a bunch!” Another crystalline laugh rippled through her and she steadied herself against the dark, ebony piano that was one of the most employed outlets of her sister's anger. “No, I'm quite calm and,” Narcissa smiled sarcastically, “my knickers are doing well for themselves. There's no particular reason for me to be upset—provided, of course, you believe that I knew my daughter-in-law was none other than Ginevra Weasley.”

“And you knew?” Bellatrix asked again, peering inquisitively into Narcissa's eyes.

It was easier for the blonde woman to reiterate her lie once it had already been uttered. Some part of her, some visceral instinct, understood that Bellatrix could not be allowed to learn that Ginevra had had ill motives regarding her son, her family. While she was no longer one of Lord Voldemort's closest lieutenants, she was nonetheless a very, very dangerous witch—perhaps even a bit unhinged at times, if Narcissa did think so herself.

“Yes, Bella, I knew,” Narcissa repeated. A small smile graced her lips. “But once I realized that she and Draco were so taken with each other, I figured it would be an acceptable match; she is, after all, from a very respectable family.”

At the mention of Ginevra's family, the corner of Bellatrix's eye twitched, reminding Narcissa that she had not come to her sister's home to be interrogated, but to interrogate. And that spasm was too reminiscent of the times when twelve year old Bella came back with a dead kitten in her school-bag to allow Narcissa much room for misinterpretation.

“I thought you had looked for a suitable bride at that marrying agency… Hesperides' Apple, was it?”

Damn her and her memory, Narcissa thought as she saw her sister's eyes narrow in amusement, as though she were a cat playing with her prey.

“I did,” Narcissa conceded, and managed not to gloat when her following statement quelled the glint of victory that had sparked in Bellatrix's dark pupils. “But before I had found a suitable match, Draco presented me a friend he had made. A friend from Durmstrang. One he had been exchanging letters with, as per your suggestion, in fact.”

Bellatrix tactfully refrained from scowling, although it became obvious that had she known correspondence with a student from the prestigious Durmstrang would lead to her nephew's marriage to a blood-traitor, she would have refrained from making such a suggestion. At last, she gestured for Narcissa to sit down, and the younger woman was pleased to see that she had passed her sister's examination.

“Yes, well,” Bellatrix went on, waving the matter off, “I don't always make the best suggestions.”

“Nor the best choices,” Narcissa pointed out, immediately conjuring the cloud of tension Bellatrix thought she had dispelled.

The house-elf appeared with a tray toppling with sugar-cookies, tea-cups and a teapot.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Bellatrix asked slowly, her voice gone suddenly metallic.

“Well, following this morning's revelation, reporters came up to me and—“

“Narcissa, please,” Bellatrix snapped. “I don't care about the who, when, and where. What is it you're trying to say?”

Her posture noticeably more tense than earlier, she now appeared to be not only all ears but about to bare her claws. The house-elf quickly unloaded the tray, looking very much like he was about to die—which, for all he knew, might very well have been a possibility. Bellatrix, attuned to other beings' painful emotions, felt his apprehension, and threw the sugar-pot at him.

“Rufee, get out!” she hissed, and the house-elf gladly complied. Then, turning to Narcissa again, she added, “Now say what you came to say, Narcissa. I'm tired of playing mind games with you.”

“And then you tell me I'm lying?” Narcissa smirked. “You love mind-games too much for your own good. This is what got you in that situation in the first place.”

“If you're referring to—“

“You know what I'm referring to, Bella, just as you know why I'm here—and that's because people have been asking me questions to which I don't have the answers.”

Bellatrix smiled eerily, in a gesture that revealed her sharp canines, and gave her face the haunted look she carried from Azkaban.

“You never bothered to ask these questions, sister dearest. I suppose the truth would have been too troubling for your precious little mind to bear.”

“Well I'm asking them now,” Narcissa said petulantly, annoyed by her sister's condescendence when it came to matters related to the war—as though her life hadn't been threatened and nearly destroyed by it; as though she hadn't lost a husband and, in some ways, a son to it.

“Indeed. What is it you're asking, Cissy?” Bellatrix asked, leaning forward, her smile more predatory as their dialogue progressed. Narcissa understood that whatever she learned then and there would forever change her relation with her sister. Unfortunately, there was no going back.

“Did you know that they were going to kill the Weasleys?” Narcissa breathed out, unable, unwilling to get any closer to the real question on her first try.

“They? Yes, Narcissa, I knew that they were going to kill the Weasleys.”

“Were you a part of that raid?” Narcissa added, able to keep her voice firm despite the implications of the erratic twitching of Bellatrix' eye.

“Yes.”

“Did you kill them, Bella?” Narcissa asked, praying fervently for a negative answer although by that point, such an alternative should not even have been conceivable.

“Well, it depends, when you think about it,” Bellatrix pointed out, humidifying her lips with her tongue. “I definitely got one of the twins… And I'm pretty sure I got that cow, Molly.”

“Oh my God,” Narcissa whispered, her mind reeling with the implications of what she know knew for a fact.

“God? No, he's long gone, my dear. Didn't you get the memo?” Bellatrix said, and smiled ferociously.

My sister killed my grandsons' grandmother and uncle. Ginevra's family. Oh, Draco, Draco—if I had known… But I did. There is no getting beyond this, Narcissa understood at last.

***

Malfoy Manor.

A shadow slipped through the dimly lit corridors, heading knowingly through the labyrinth that was the manor, visibly unperturbed by the plethora of doors and intersections. She reached the greenhouse, guided by the wavering light and humid smell that wafted from there at night. She pushed open the glass door and was immediately surrounded by a warm, fragrant moist, one that never failed to appease her when her anxieties made her restless. She had been coming down here a lot, as of late. The pulsing stillness of the vegetation had her willingly captive.

It was when she reached the bench of roses that she noticed something was amiss. The water-spray and clippers she never wielded unless hidden by nighttime were missing. She stilled, listening, and finally perceived it, the murmur that was more than the vegetal shuffle customary to the greenhouse, the murmur that was inherently human. Wearily she headed in that direction, increasingly curious about the snipping sound that arose from behind the curtain of Irate Ivy. As she peaked through to observe the intruder, the ivy emitted a hissing sound and started coiling its tentacles menacingly.

“Be quiet, you'll wake up the other plants,” Ginny snapped, and Narcissa was surprised to see the ivy pipe down,

Ginny stood by the working table, wearing over her nightgown the silk kimono Draco had brought back from Japan for her. Despite her resentment toward the mother of her grandchildren, Narcissa allowed herself a small smile for this gesture and then, her face once again arranged in a stern mask, she approached Ginny.

“I had been wondering about the Persephone Orchid's sudden vitality,” she said softly, if not kindly.

Ginny jolted and turned around, her expression guarded.

“How often do you come down here?” Narcissa went on conversationally, unaware of why she was speaking to this woman who had poisoned her son's existence and her own.

Ginny was unsure how to respond. Draco's mother didn't look particularly pleased to find her daughter-in-law in the greenhouse, but as she hadn't yet made cutting comment or directed the Irate Ivy to strangle her, Ginny decided to answer, feeling nearly as nervous as she had been during her first days at Malfoy Manor—as though, even though she had no illusions regarding Narcissa's role in her family's tragedy, she couldn't bring herself to hold her completely accountable for it.

“A few times a week, I guess. The babies tend to do their gymnastic at odd hours of the night and it kills my back. I take care of the plants until the boys fall asleep again.”

“Have you told Draco?” Narcissa asked, surprising Ginny by her failure to criticize the pregnant witch's over-sensitiveness.

“No,” Ginny said, the ghost of a bitter smile on her lips.

“Of course not,” Narcissa added, the chill in her voice suddenly more pronounced. Ginny stared at her evenly.

“Of course not. He certainly has more preoccupying things to worry about.”

“More preoccupying than the health and well-being of the woman who carries his sons?” Narcissa hissed, her voice filled with venom. “Certainly.”

Ginny allowed herself to snort delicately, hoping that the sound of the orchid's clipped branch would cover the incarnation of her derision. She made the mistake of adding, under her breath, “Well-being indeed”. And for the first time in her otherwise adventurous existence, Ginny had the unpleasant surprise of seeing Narcissa Malfoy snap.

“You think you're so miserable, cooped up in here amongst people who hate you?” she bit out, each word as cutting as a razor blade. “Do you have any idea—any idea at all—what Draco underwent to be here today, to have your pathetic little self trample over everything he nearly lost his life trying to establish? You think you've had it so hard, losing your family, that you're entitled to your petty little revenge? Imagine if the life of those you mourn so vindictively had been placed in your hands!” Narcissa advanced toward Ginny, radiating a cold, Veela-worthy fury, her expression fierce and murderous. “What would you have done? Do you honestly believe you would have spared us—spared us as mercilessly as you did by coming into Draco's life and breaking havoc because your dignity demanded it?”

Ginny, startled by the remark, could not even bring herself to deny an accusation that she had indeed, at times, addressed herself. But Gryffindors were not ones to trouble themselves with subtleties, and the Weasleys were no exception, sticking to the comfort of black and white rather than delving into the subtleties of different shades of gray.

“I don't understand what you're talking about,” Ginny said, looking at the orchid's dark red petals. Narcissa laughed harshly.

“Of course you do! Look at yourself! Right now you're probably searching your memory for things Draco may have said or done that warrant your anger. Don't you understand he had no choice?” Narcissa asked, her voice suddenly shrill.

It was Ginny's turn to laugh, although it felt bitter in her throat and she had to push the words out.

“No choice? No, of course not. He had no choice but to beat up Dean within a few inches of his life, no choice—“

“Dan? The man with who you were staying?” Narcissa interrupted, sounding so genuinely surprised that Ginny could only nod. “Draco showed up at some Muggle-born's house looking for his wife, and before he could utter a word he was being punched in the face. How would you have reacted?”

“Dean didn't—“

“He most certainly did!” Narcissa snorted. “Of course Draco retaliated! As for how that ended, well… Draco has always been a jealous boy. And easily angered. ”

“But he didn't have a single bruise!”

“I wouldn't have been nearly as imposing when I then tried to convince you to come home, don't you think?” Draco's cool, but distinctly amused voice emerged from the darkness of the greenhouse. Both women turned toward him.

“What are you doing here?” Ginny asked automatically, her mind still processing Narcissa's revelation and Draco's comment. Home. She had almost called this place “home”, once, before.

“Well,” he answered, shooting her a winsome smile, “the two women of my life are having a pajama-party in my greenhouse, so I figured I would drop by.”

“Pajama?” Narcissa said, as startled as Ginny by the Muggle reference.

“Dean hit you?” Ginny asked.

“He did,”—Draco's grin turned feral—“but then I hit him back. And you don't emerge from a month under Rabastan's tutelage without in-depth knowledge of how to hit back.”

Ginny looked at him oddly, a hint of fear sliding in her eyes.

“Rabastan's tutelage?”

Draco shrugged, and Narcissa turned, wide eyed to her son.

“She doesn't know? Perhaps you should tell—“

“No,” came Draco's immediate response.

“I'm going to bed,” Ginny said, replacing the clippers on the work-table and quickly disappearing behind the curtain of Irate Ivy, without a second glance for the mother and son.

As she headed toward the room she shared with Draco, Ginny felt an immense weariness overwhelming her. Her belly was heavy as she climbed the stairs, and she felt in her back the strain of keeping herself upright. She didn't know what to believe anymore, how to act, what to give in to; stranding straight or bending, ignoring or forgiving—either, at that point, seemed like viable option, but which one to choose?

Back in the greenhouse, Narcissa picked up the clippers and began cutting the remaining dead branches from the orchid. Draco leaned against the trunk of a fruit-tree.

“I don't suppose you've spoken to her, then,” Narcissa said after a peaceful silence had settled between them, as inviting to confession as a maternal caress.

“No,” Draco said. “She won't listen,” he added as an after-thought, and Narcissa turned, shocked by the defeatism she perceived in his voice.

“Why wouldn't she?” she asked, thinking that after the verbal lashing she had just received, the girl had better demonstrate some common-sense in listening to Draco's version of events she understood so little about. Knowing that Draco would be angry if he learned that Narcissa had given Ginny the full [scope] of her thoughts, she refrained from mentioning that incident.

“She is so convinced that I killed her family out of spite, or even hate, that there isn't any possibility of convincing her otherwise. She holds to that certitude like a drowning woman to a reef—“

“—failing to understand that the reef's sharp sides will cut her until the sharks come, called forth the blood.”

Draco smirked in a disabused way.

“That's quite a gory metaphor.”

“How else would you refer to Bellatrix, Frollo, or even Pansy? The press and common wizards are nothing compared to them and how delightfully they would tear Ginevra to shreds. She needs you to take care of her as fiercely as you took care of yourself during the war,” Narcissa sighed, “and of us.”

“Mother—“

“Shh,” Narcissa said, placing her finger on her son's lips. “You should talk to her. A woman alone in a greenhouse in the middle of the night needs explanations, Draco. Explanations, or a way out. Now good night,” she added and patted his cheek.

Draco nodded.

“Good night,” he said, and headed for the exit.

He was halfway through the ivy-curtain when a thought struck him.

“But you were alone in the greenhouse, too, weren't you?”

She smiled enigmatically and turned her back to him, signifying in no uncertain terms that their discussion was over. Thoughtful, Draco regained his room, where Ginny had fallen asleep on her side of the bed, curled up around a belly so big Draco yearned to help her carry it.

(1) About Botticelli's “Tale of Nastagio degli Onesti”… It's not as famous as his “Primavera” or “birth of Venus”, nor, in my opinion, as elegant. For those of you who don't know of it, or don't feel like Googling it—a more than understandable approach, I wouldn't want to, either—all you need to know (with respect to my story) is that three of the four panels depict a man hunting down a woman, the woman being torn apart by the man's hounds, and the man cutting the woman's heart out. Somehow it's supposed to be a love story because he loved her, she ignored him, he killed himself and she died later on of an unrelated cause; because suicide is a sin and she had been a bitch, they were condemned to replaying this scene every day—namely, the hunting, killing, and tearing the heart out—as their eternal punishment. Moral of the story: “Do not refuse the love that is being offered to you.” I just felt that the hunting and ripping fit well with Bellatrix and Rodolphus' personalities.

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­Chapter 25: Getting back in the game

May 1999

Malfoy Manor.

Ginny walked into the dining room that morning to find Leo Lestrange seated in front of where she usually sat, his feet dangling as he peered around. She debated stepping out and finding who had brought Bellatrix' son to her breakfast table, but he saw her before she made a decision, and a smile lit his face.

“Ginny!” he called, hopping off the ridiculously ornate chair and running to hug her. “Wow, you've gotten really big!”

Ginny gently ruffled his hair and smiled, feeling oddly torn in front of this little boy who reminded her so strongly of his mother, and of her own brothers when their ears still stuck out. He seemed to sense her melancholic weariness and stepped back, a childish glare now obscuring his face.

“Why haven't you come to see me?” he asked. “It's been at least two months. I missed you. Why didn't you come? Igor said it's because you never liked us and Lorelei punched him before I could.”

Ginny acknowledged the rebuke, but smiled at the mention of Lorelei's feistiness, so much like her own had been once. Still, she didn't know how to respond.

“Is it true?” Leo asked, a hint of fear running through his heavily-lashed black eyes.

“Did you have breakfast yet?” Ginny asked, ushering him toward the table. “Because I'm starved, and so are my boys.”

“I'm hungry too,” Leo said, easily distracted. He climbed back on his chair as Ginny carefully sat down. “What are you going to call them?” he asked, picking up a croissant.

“Croissants?” she asked, clearly puzzled.

“No,” Leo laughed, “the babies.”

“Oh.” She seemed thunderstruck. “I have no idea.”

“Did you ask Draco?”

“No.”

“You should. He'll be angry and sad if you don't, just like you are.”

“What do you mean?” Ginny asked, buttering a toast.

“You didn't answer my question, you know,” Leo said, smiling in a wicked way that reminded Ginny of Bellatrix. “Is what Igor said true?”

Ginny looked at him, startled by the vehemence of his question. Belatedly, she realized he was his parents' rightful child, and that though he didn't share their responsibility in the tragedy that had befallen her family, he definitely had inherited their determination and their cunning.

“No, it isn't. But…” She hesitated, and the look of intelligence he gave her urged her to go on. “Your mother did something unforgivable to me, and I'm having a hard time reconciling that with the fact that I like you so much.”

“Oh,” Leo said. He looked at his fingers, then back at Ginny. “Thank you for talking to me like I can understand.”

“Of course. I've had to deal with being the baby too much not to appreciate how difficult that can be!”

They exchanged a look and both smiled. At that moment, it would have been difficult to determine who was the adult and who was the child, or whether they were either, or whether it even mattered, for they were both in need of understanding.

“How about Orion?” Leo suggested.

“After the constellation?” Ginny snickered, and spread some jam on her croissant. “There's no way I'm naming my kids after stars. You got the last, decent available name.”

“It's a tradition, you know,” Leo noted, grinning maliciously.

“Not if I have a say in it.”

“They won't be happy…”

“Are they ever?” Ginny pointed out, scowling, and her knife drove through the tender, buttery flesh of the pastry.

“You should come back to the MCCD,” Leo said, tactfully shifting gears. “A lot of us miss you, and… our magic works better when you help us.”

“That's because I know you can use it perfectly well,” she said, her face softening immediately.

“You believe in us.”

“Yes, I believe in you,” Ginny repeated, feeling suddenly so much affection for the little boy that she felt she might have been transferring her maternal love to him.

“Draco does too,” Leo added knowingly. “Care, I mean.”

Ginny groaned, willing all thoughts of a considerate Draco Malfoy away from her mind. Leo bit into his third croissant, which made his smile a bit soggy and all the more endearing.

“He's right, you know,” came Izha's voice from the door. “You'll need to acknowledge it eventually.”

She crossed the sunlit dining room, her sober dress contrasting with the cream walls, amber wood, and gold embroideries. Her step was smooth and elegant in a subtly dignified way, much like her hair— which, deployed like a raven's wing, always but casually dissimulated the mark on her cheek. She took a seat next to Ginny, who glared at her, then pushed a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice in front of her and Leo.

“It's good for you. Vitamin C and what not.” The two pure-blooded wizards looked confused. “Muggle health. And you, Ginevra, also need to stop moping about, erring through the Manor at night, and playing staring contests with Narcissa.”

“I don't want to hear this,” Leo said, his mouth full.

“Close your mouth when you chew,” Ginny said as Leo added., “I like Aunt Cissy.”

“It's a bloody conspiracy,” Ginny mumbled, rolling her eyes, but Izha could tell she was biting back a smile.

“You haven't seen Shehzin in a while, either,” Izha observed.

“Or Lorelei. She said she's your cousin since you're a Weasley. I kind of figured. I like your hair like that, by the way.”

“Aren't you a little charmer?”,” Ginny said, laughing, although a feeling of guilt settled at the pit of her stomach. She had lied to Shehzin, neglected Lorelei, and now—a sharp pain brought her hand to her belly. “I can't believe it! Not even born and…”

“Already as jealous and demanding as their father,” Izha filled in.

“Will you stop it?”

Leo looked on, amused, at the two women bickering. Their liveliness—even Izha's more reserved vitality— changed him from his sister's lethargy and the carelessness his parents generally treated him with. He poured Ginny a second glass of orange juice, which she emptied immediately.

“So should I contact Shehzin?” Izha asked, smiling. She hadn't seen Ginny so animated in days and was grateful to Narcissa for having called Leo over.

“Of course. Whether I'll be allowed to see her is another story…” Ginny added, frowning.

“Now, you're being silly,” Izha snapped, and Ginny was surprised to see Leo nodding, which made her wonder how much of the situation he understood. “Draco will be happy to see that you're going back to your normal self.”

Ginny rolled her eyes, and Izha shot her a dark look, so uncustomary of her that both women dissolved in laughter under Leo's attentive and curious gaze. He felt the mood changing, however, when Izha placed a frail branch, bearing three black orchid flowers, spotted with red, in front of the redhead. They didn't break eye contact, both their faces suddenly stern and unmoving.

“What is it?” Leo asked.

There was a silence. Izha raised an eyebrow, giving Ginny a pointed look.

“Persephone Orchid (1).”

“Oh.” Leo appeared thoughtful. “I read about them. Love to death and unto death or something like that, right?”

“Yes, Leo,” Ginny said softly, her voice cool and guarded. “Fitting, isn't it?” she added to Izha, although the dark-haired woman chose to ignore the unspoken reproach for bringing the topic up, once again.

“Narcissa gave it to Draco this morning,” Izha informed them. “She said that even though Persephone had been coerced into marrying Hades, she eventually became his respectful and loving queen.”

“Those are legends, and you know it,” Ginny snapped, and Izha smirked in a way oddly reminiscent of her father.

“That's what Draco said, too. He didn't sound too happy about it, either. But you of all people should now that myths are never too far from the truth—ranging from wizards, to enchanted clocks, to basilisks—“

“That's enough,” Ginny said coldly, memories flooding through her like acid, biting their way through the comfortable setting of a late breakfast.

Izha nodded and sat back, her face once again tinged with the benevolent impassibility she had abandoned minutes ago. Her words and the pain they caused to her friend saddened her, but she understood only that could bring her close to Draco again—for the one thing they currently shared without wanting to admit it was just that--, their pain, resentment, and actions brought forth by elements greater than themselves.

“… from bitterness and strife they grow, `til love their red marks show,” Leo, absorbed in his effort to remember his textbook, recited.

Behind the closed doors of the dining room, Narcissa, her ear inelegantly glued to the keyhole, closed her eyes, and smiled softly.

-+-+-+-

Delices de Diane, Stonehenge City

They decided to meet at the Delices de Diane (2). The elegant tea-parlor boasted secluded booths and an outrageous selection of delicacies, so that the promise of chocolate truffles alone would have sufficed to lure Ginny from Malfoy Manor. Izha and her friend arrived there first, the redhead eliciting nothing but a small trail of murmurs from people too civilized to openly stare and comment. Izha, her long, black hair hiding the mark on her cheek so as not to draw further attention, lead them to a cozy little booth where they sat down. The usher closed the lacy curtains behind them with an air of the utmost seriousness and discretion; Ginny giggled.

“You'd think he expects us to discuss state affairs, or propose…”

“Wait, isn't that what we're here for?” Izha asked, all the while maintaining a perfectly straight face. “After your bedside confessions last night, I thought I could hope—”

“Izha, joking?” Ginny smirked. “What has the Londonian air done to your impeccable reserve?”

“Why blame it on the atmosphere when my greatest teacher in humor is sitting right in front of me?” Izha observed serenely.

“I am not that—“

“Hello,” came Shehzin's throaty voice from the entry of the booth. She smiled that smile of hers which lit up her entire face like sunlight illuminates dawn, but there was a strain in her tone that both women noticed.

“Hi,” Ginny said as hesitantly.

Shehzin sat down, fumbled with her purse, and finally looked up. Ginny was staring attentively at her spoon, the guilt for misleading her friend about her identity washing through her in a sudden, quiet wave. And though she understood that, in essence, who she actually was should play no part in their friendship, the breach in trust her lies had created could not be mended. Expecting a rebuke, she was therefore surprised by Shehzin's next words.

“Gin, I'm terribly sorry for what I did! I didn't know what it meant to you, and when Blaise asked to, and we owed Draco a wizard's debt, I felt it was the right thing to do!”

“Wait,” Ginny interrupted her, spluttering, and Izha, interested by the unexpected development, leaned in. “Do what?”

“Tail you!” Shehzin exclaimed, moving her hands about her expressively. “I followed you. Do you remember when you met your friend at St. Mungo's?”

“Who, Neville?” Ginny asked, stunned by the turn of the discussion.

“Yes, I think so. I was there! And I told Blaise about your discussion with him.”

“You were there… But I didn't see you!”

“No, you didn't. But did you see me?” she asked, and suddenly her cheeks thinned, her complexion paled, and her hair turned a dull blonde.

“Uh… I don't remember. I might have, but… You're a Metamorphmagus?”

“That's exactly it,” Shehzin said. “I look familiar, but not distinctive enough that you would remember me.”

“You're a Metamorphmagus,” Ginny repeated, startled by the woman facing her, whose voice and eyes remained those so characteristic of Shehzin. “And you followed me? Spied on me? Betrayed me,” she added as an afterthought.

Shehzin allowed her appearance to shift back to her natural one and nodded wearily. She felt at a loss for words to justify her actions, and the hint of disappointment pooling slowly in Ginny's eyes was an additional thorn in her side.

“She owed Draco a wizard's debt and believed something was wrong,” Izha pointed out reasonably. “Moral duty, Ginevra. Surely you understand that notion?”

Ginny frowned and bit back the nasty comment she had for Shehzin. As Narcissa's revelations had days earlier, Izha's comment put Ginny back in her place and allowed her to step back and examine Shehzin's motives. As her grudge against her did not root back as deeply as that for Draco, she quickly found it within herself to accept the other woman's apologies.

“I understand. You did what you had to do. And I'm not exactly blameless, either,” she conceded, knowing that she was tempting fate in bringing her own deceptions back to the table.

“Well… I suppose you did what you thought was right, too. Is it all settled now with Draco?”

“Yes,” Ginny said easily.

“And still you lie,” Shehzin snarled, her sparkling eyes suddenly narrowing in an expression of disgust Ginny had never before seen.

Ginny was horrified to realize that not only had she lied again, but Shehzin now expected and could detect her dishonesty. Had she managed to break the few, good things that had come from her becoming Lady Malfoy—namely, her relationship with Shehzin, Izha, and even Narcissa? Draco's deception she could deal with, those days when she still found it within herself to resent him, but these women had made her forget her vengeance, her bitterness, her solitude, and all she had offered them in return was a façade. Despair crushed her.

“I've forgotten how not to,” she admitted, tears welling up in her eyes.

Shehzin slipped from where she sat next to Izha and took a seat by Ginny, wrapping her round arms around her. Her anger seemed to have vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

“You have to let go of it all, Gin,” she whispered in her ear, her voice warm with a firm compassion. “You lied to us, and I lied to you. I don't know what Draco did,” she felt Ginny tense and held her tighter, “but unless you learn to leave it behind, you can't repair the damage you've done.”

“I can't repair it anyway,” Ginny murmured.

“That's right, you can't,” Shehzin said, and Izha looked at her sharply, afraid of the turn the conversation was taking. “Not with the way you're acting, at least. Goddamit, Gin, you've disappeared from our lives, abandoned your causes, become a ghost of yourself. If you don't trust yourself, how can you expect us to trust you?”

Ginny's tears trickled down her cheeks despite her closed eyelids, burning their way across her lashes and along her freckled skin. What Shehzin was telling her, she already knew. The overwhelming reality of it was just too much to bear, and if even her once good friend admitted that there was no going back, then she couldn't hope for anything anymore. She failed to notice that Shehzin still had her arms around her, and that her voice quivered a bit.

“Just give it up. Move on. Give us another chance so that we can give you one, too,” she said coaxingly, as the tooth-fairy who had entered the booth to take their order was shooed out by one of Izha's imposing glances. “Please.”

Izha, sitting with her back very straight, looked at the women before her with an all-enveloping gaze of compassion, in a posture that made her seem awkwardly detached and distant. Her eyes, bright with care, told a different story, as she once again found herself faced by the minuscule but painful repercussions of her father's doings.

“It takes twenty years or more of peace to make a man; it takes only twenty seconds of war to destroy him,” she said slowly. “You have the possibility to prove this Muggle king (3) wrong by listening to a mere woman.”

“Oh, Izha,” Ginny giggled, and her words were thick with tears, “quoting kings in the middle of a discussion.”

“And calling me common, all in one,” Shehzin said, frowning to maintain her own tears at bay.

“Discussion? From where I stand it looks more like an ultimatum. A very sloppy, wet one, but an ultimatum nonetheless.”

“But I can't—” Ginny countered.

“Of course you can,” Shehzin snapped, annoyance once again taking over, in a reaction customary of individuals spoiled during their childhood. “We'll help you. Right, Izha?”

“Only she can help herself.”

Shehzin rolled her eyes and murmured, “Bloody sanctimonious woman.”. Ginny laughed again. She nodded in the crook of Shehzin's neck, too absorbed in wiping her tears to notice the sigh of relief that slipped through her friend's lips. Izha smiled serenely, looking entirely too unperturbed by the set of events.

“How can you remain so calm?” Shehzin asked her as Ginny sat up again and tried to compose herself.

“I find that agitation is generally not very conductive to productive outcomes,” Izha retorted. “Besides, you always need someone to say the serious sentence that will turn the tables, and it can't be delivered effectively if you're too busy not choking on your tears and mucus.”

Shehzin made a face.

“Gross. And I suppose that someone is you? Self-righteousness is indeed a Malfoy trait!”

Izha smiled mysteriously, acknowledging the barb, and added, “But I'm no Malfoy.”

“I don't know about you guys, but I could use some chocolate right now,” Ginny interrupted, never too keen on discussing Izha's ancestry. Shehzin nodded emphatically, and Izha merely looked away, all of a sudden absorbed in her thoughts.

As if on cue, a fairy flew inside their booths. She was rather plump but pretty, dressed all in white and smelling of mint and sugar. She gave them a bright, beautiful smile, so white it almost shone, and asked whether they were ready to order.

“I'll have the chocolate sundae with whipped cream, nutella, and extra-chocolate chips please,” Ginny said without a moment's hesitation.

“Ice cream?” the tooth-fairy asked.

“Vanilla,” Ginny replied as Shehzin and Izha smiled indulgently.

“And for you ladies?”

“I'll have the chocolat-chaud du Chef,” Izha said.

“Same for me, with a side of chocolate truffles please,” Shehzin added.

“Certainly. I'll be back in a few minutes.”

And with that, the fairy floated out of the booth. Ginny's eyes were positively shining—whether with remnants of tears or gluttonous expectation, though, was up for interpretation.

“So,” Ginny said after taking a deep breath. “What's been going on?”

“Well, Blaise and I discovered this new trick in be—“

“I don't want to hear it,” Izha said flatly, a shimmer of mirth in her eyes.

“Yeah, me neither. Please. It's not as though I ever told you about the position Drac—“

“I said stop, ye wanton women,” Izha interrupted. “Merlin's beard, can't you keep the secrets of your sex lives private?”

“No,” Ginny said, grinning ferally.

“In fact, those are about the only secrets we can't keep!” Shehzin said viciously.

Izha was about to comment when she saw Ginny's eyes grow wide and her attention turn to the outside of the booth.

“Ginevra, what—“

“Shhhhhh,” Ginny said, waving her hands, palms down, to demand silence.

Instinctively, the three women leaned toward the curtain that separated them from the rest of the café, exchanging mischievous glances although neither Shehzin nor Izha knew what they were listening for until they heard Draco's voice.

“… told you that I detested this place! It's a pathetic excuse for women to get together, gossip like teenager girls, and gain additional pounds by stuffing themselves like their metabolism still is what it used to be.”

“It's also a very elegant and agreeable getaway for romantic rendez-vous,” Pansy Parkinson's voice, obviously amused, pointed out.

“Thinking of what could have been but never will be?” Draco said, and Ginny could almost picture the sardonic smirk on his face.

“I'm so far beyond that, Draco, and you know it. Although I wouldn't be surprised if you were reconsidering your choice, right no—“

“Don't even start, Pansy,” Draco said, his voice menacing.

“I mean, she is a blood-traitor after all. What have you gotten yourself into this time?” she carried on, either oblivious to his implied threat or too careless to oblige.

“I forbid you to refer to her in those terms…” Draco began.

“You are in no position to forbid me anything.”

“…and I'll have you know we got engaged for a reason—and I was well aware of her being a Weasley.”

“Oh, Draco,” Pansy said tenderly, and Ginny suddenly wanted to claw her eyes out. “Surely you don't expect me to believe that?”

There was a silence. Shehzin and Izha exchanged a curious glance, while Ginny, her attention focused on her husband's voice, looked positively murderous.

“Where has Ginevra been, Draco? I haven't seen her in the past, oh, few months? This doesn't usually happen in happy couples, does it…?”…”

On the other side of the curtain, Draco fervently prayed for the tooth-fairy carrying Mrs. Parkinson's gift to arrive. He was all too aware that silence or rebuke would only serve to confirm Pansy's point, and, at that moment, he ardently resented the years of friendship they shared and that lead to her being so attuned to his thoughts.

“I doubt you know much about happy couples, Pansy,” he remarked snidely.

“Perhaps,” she retorted, and her voice turned chilly, “but let me tell you this, Draco Malfoy.” Her voice dropped a few decibels. “I don't know what your pretty little wife has been up to, and quite frankly, I don't care. All I know is that she took what was rightfully mine, disrupted the established order of things, and did something to you—”

“It's called hea—“

Ginny blushed fiercely, but Pansy interrupted Draco.

“I am not a fool, Draco!” she hissed. “As far as I'm concerned, she's a fickle, vicious little bitch—“

“Pansy…” Draco said, and Ginny knew him well enough to understand that his once best friend had just crossed a line she hadn't even known existed.

“—and I will not be associated with her, or you, until you get rid of her.”

“Then I guess that settles it,” Draco said calmly. “Goodbye, Parkinson. My mother sends her regard to yours.”

From the rustle of cloth and the silence that ensued, the three women understood that Draco had left Pansy. Sure enough, the witch's following words were not directed to her now absent friend.

“He really loves her, that bastard,” she murmured almost sadly. “What a fool…”

Izha shot Ginny a meaningful look, which she pointedly ignored, aghast at the realization that Draco had just broken his long-lasting friendship with Pansy Parkinson. For her, no less. She placed her hands on her belly as, right on target, one of her sons made its presence known by shoving his brother. A series of kicks ensued, making Ginny wince, but the warmth provided by her recent eavesdropping would not abate.

“Well,” Shehzin said, smiling contentedly. “That was informative.”

“Need any additional proof?” Izha asked.

“Yeah, because Parkinson thinking he loves me is a dead giveaway.”

“I'd say so,” Shehzin mumbled, as Izha replied, “It's the best you're ever going to get, because he's not willing to admit it to himself, let alone to you!”

“Where's my sundae?” Ginny asked, pouting like a kid.

Like magic, their orders appeared on the table. Ginny voraciously attacked her own, as Shehzin stared at her, aghast.

“She's in denial, isn't she?”

“Has been for weeks. Although you should see Draco,” Izha said, smiling benevolently. “We're talking months.”

“Stop gossiping and enjoy the chocolate,” Ginny suggested, ignoring their earlier comments. “Now, what do you know about baby names?”

-+-+-+-

London.

In his office, Draco silently cursed Pansy. Granted, he had never questioned her perspicacity, but her choice to hold that discussion in such a crowded place was unacceptable and she knew it perfectly well. Though he wasn't sure what her intentions were—whether she wanted him to admit his need for Ginevra or the fact that their marriage was a sham—he had not appreciated the move.

Subconsciously looking for an outlet to appease his anger and tiredness, Draco blindly ran his hands across his desk. He wrapped his fingers around a quill, thinking of how easy it would be to break its frail skeleton and twist its velvety strands, so harmoniously melded together in the feather that had once propelled a bird through the clouds. How easy it was, to break things; how easy to destroy what made you soar, slating yourself for the inevitable tumble back down to reality.

“Lord Malfoy?” came the voice of his secretary from the door.

“Yes?” he asked, immediately slipping on the mask of the perfectly composed gentleman.

“Simon Ellsworth and Richard Gane, from the Wizarding Bank of America, are here to see you.”

“Show them in,” Draco said, suddenly feeling on more comfortable terrain; unlike feminine emotions and intrigues, businesses and money were things he enjoyed playing with. The shadow of a broken Icarus still falling through clouds of sunlight accompanied Draco as he welcomed his business partners.

(1) Persephone, following her kidnapping by the Lord of Underworld, Hades, was tricked into eating pomegranates, which forever tied her to the land of the dead. She eventually came to love and respect her husband, even displaying jealousy when he fooled around with Mintho. The orchid was the one Ginny was taking care of at the end of the previous chapter. Reference: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Persephone

(2) “Delices de Diane” refers to the delicious pastries of Diana, Roman goddess of many things, amongst which are virginity and hunt. While she never was associated with actual pastries, I felt that this would be a lovely name for a place where women meet to indulge their love of chocolate.

(3) Baudouin I, King of the Belgians.

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26. The Ministry's Trojan horse

May 1999

Malfoy Manor.

Ginny didn't know what pushed her that night to shun the comfort and privacy of the library for the reading room where Narcissa often retired, waiting for her son to come home. If the older woman was surprised to hear her enter the room, she didn't show it, keeping her eyes to the book she was perusing. Though no fire graced the chimney and a cool breeze wafted through the open windows, the room looked no different from the wintery nights when both women read in companionable silence, patiently expecting the sound of Draco's footsteps in the corridor. There, Ginny had acquainted herself with the calmer, more profound but also more natural character of her mother-in-law; there, she had, for the first time, witnessed Narcissa's weaknesses and her struggles with remnants of the war that extended beyond the Harpy Pox' symptoms; there, she had allowed herself to imagine that Draco's mother could actually be a decent woman.

But through her veins ran a blood too similar to Bellatrix' own, toujours pur, but staining the hands of many generations, and Ginny could not forget that—she couldn't allow herself to. Regardless, and for reasons that eluded her but that she did not wish to inspect, Ginny took a seat in the armchair she usually occupied, fumbled about to find a comfortable position despite her belly, and started reading. She hadn't seen Izha since dinner, but thought nothing of it, for the dark-haired woman enjoyed moments of loneliness as much as Ginny herself did. Narcissa, on the other hand, was too adept at manipulations and politics to believe Izha's absence to be fortuitous. Uncertain of where things were going, she surmised that any new installment would be preferable to the one currently in place; she couldn't imagine her grandchildren growing up in a house with their parents acting as though they were constantly about to say something that would begin a war—or continue one.

When Draco stepped into the reading room an hour or so later, he was not surprised to find his mother, slowly lifting her eyes from her book, and coolly eyeing him. As he took in the appearance of her companion, however, his breath—much to his annoyance—hitched in his throat. Ginevra's curls, still unevenly cut from the knife he had thrown at her and her mutinous decision to finish the job, framed her face with vibrant red. She looked composed and unguarded, so absorbed in her reading she hadn't heard him come in, and though Draco had never thought of pregnancy as being attractive, he had to admit that it became her superbly. The fact that she became more beautiful every passing day, acquiring in maternity the majesty she had sometimes lacked, and every passing day more distant from him, was not a pleasant realization.

Draco took a seat as Narcissa rose, and the look they exchanged was evocative enough that they did not have to speak. She kissed him on the forehead, handing him the book she was reading. Ginny, although she could not have ignored the rustle made by their movements, read on. Narcissa left, the stern arch of her lips the enigmatic counterpart of Izha's unfathomable smiles. Wuthering Heights, read the book cover, and Draco suppressed a smile: it seemed so like his mother to fill her nocturnal lectures with fictional recollections of twisted relationships, as though the life of those living under her roof weren't misshapen and somber enough. He opened the volume.

I want you to be aware that I know you have treated me infernally -infernally! Do you hear? And if you flatter yourself that I don't perceive it, you are a fool; and if you think I can be consoled by sweet words, you are an idiot; and if you fancy I'll suffer unrevenged, I'll convince you of the contrary, in a very little while!

He may not have cared much for Muggles, but Draco could recognize good literature when he read it. The fact that he had opened the book at precisely this page seemed like no coincidence, either, and he needed no further proof to understand that this work, much like other oeuvres-d'art, had a life of its own—and an undeniable tie to his. Revenge, revenge, it always came down to this, and who was he to believe that words would suffice in shaking Ginevra from her torpor?

It would take more.

More than words, be they apologies or threats; more than explanations, justifications, and persuasion, for though Draco had always been adept at wielding those, he was too aware of his wife's personality not to acknowledge that they would fall short of what she demanded; more than anger and orders, because a stab at that had revealed how dispassionately she would yield, burying within herself until Draco couldn't even recognize her; more than pleas and remorseful begging, because theirs was a generation forever robbed of its capacity to believe in repentant confessions.

Ginny chose that moment to get up. She did so slowly, and not entirely gracefully, trying to maintain her balance without hurting her back. With all her might she cursed her aching bones and her usually lithe frame which, unlike her mother's, was not well accommodated for carrying two babies at a time. She placed the book back on the shelf where it belonged, and then headed for the door. Smoothly and swiftly, like a shadow following the body that casts it, Draco was up and following her. He slipped his fingers through hers, and, feeling as nervous as he had since he had asked a six-year old Pansy to be his girlfriend, he spoke.

“Ginevra, I—“

“My mum used to call me Ginevra when she was angry,” Ginny interrupted him, her voice betraying no emotion, but her confession and the fact that she hadn't taken her hand back encouraging Draco to go on.

“Would you prefer Ginny, then, like back at Hog—” Draco said, incapable of holding the hint of sarcasm from poisoning his words.

“Back when I could still pretend I was a little girl?” Ginny answered as they walked through the dimly lit corridor. Her voice held a bitterness similar to Draco's, but it was not aggressive. “No.”

They kept walking, he utterly unable to bring about his suggestion, she growing increasingly curious about the reason for his silence. Luckily, Draco was as unable to conquer his unordinary muteness as Ginny was used to demanding information, so that it didn't take long for her to give in.

“What were you going to say?” she burst out, punctuating her question with an encouraging pressure on his hand.

He smirked despite himself, her belonging to the Weasley family all too obvious should one bother to take into consideration her fiery temper, impatience, and inability to keep her tongue when riled up. Only then did he notice the dappled texture of a Persephone orchid, hiding inconspicuously amidst Ginny's red curls.

“Do you know why Persephone stayed with Hades in the end?” he asked out of the blue, with the odd feeling that she would know what he was talking about.

“She came to know him, I suppose,” she answered without missing a beat. “Understood his motives, his loneliness, the darkness within and around…”

Draco nodded and then stopped her by the stairs that lead to their bedroom.

“He had to show it all to her, though. For her to understand, she had to willingly follow his descent into the Underworld.” (1)

Ginny looked up at him then, amazed as she usually was by his immaculate composure and the casualty with which he had employed the mythological parallel to ask her for a favor—but was it a favor, a moment of respite, or the possibility of reconnecting with their months of blissful companionship?

She nodded, and though he did not seem to acknowledge her movement, he started walking again, toward the end of the corridor opposite to the one they came from. Ginny knew his study was located there, but she had never been granted entry—nor had she asked for it, either, so careless of such things had she been before he discovered her true identity, and so weary of needlessly endangering their unborn sons after he had discovered it.

Draco placed his free hand on the handle, easily disarming the locking spells, and ushered Ginny into his study, glowing elegantly from its green leather and polished woods. Immediately, she felt appeased by the comfortable and tasteful sophistication of the room, knowing that it was due in part to the fact that neither silver nor green were blatantly predominant. Draco let go of her hand to head for a corner of the study in which the Malfoy crest was emblazoned. He then traced a pattern Ginny was unable to follow, but when he took back his hand, an opening formed in the wooden panel. It was no wider than one man, and as high as a painting would be; its penumbra shimmered with silvery wisps of light, so that Ginny immediately took the barely illuminated basin she could discern to be a Pensieve.

Draco pulled out his wand and lazily flicked it, floating the Pensieve across the room and allowing it to rest on his desk. He then held out his hand to Ginny, beckoning her to come forth. When she stared anxiously at the Pensieve, a part of him turned cold with the thought that she might change her mind, might refuse to endure his memories and therefore be forever unable to accept what he had done and why. She saw the emotion in his usually steely eyes, and whether she mistook the fear for compassion or assessed it adequately, neither ever found out; she took his proffered hand and stood above the Pensieve.

The pulling sensation that enveloped them affected Ginny in particular, and as the certitude that she was falling overwhelmed her, she felt Draco's arm around her shoulder, granting her a firm and stable support. As the silvery mists around them dissipated, they found themselves on what Ginny immediately recognized as the Hogwarts grounds, the night of Dumbledore's death. As soon as the darkness established itself around them, she felt Draco's grip tighten around her arm and knew that it was no longer in an effort to stabilize her so much as to endure a memory the depths and violence of which she would soon understand.

Draco, his mind reeling still from the pain and sorrow that night had wrought, had the distinct impression that he was hanging on to his wife for dear life, as though she were a pillar of stability that could anchor him in a scarred but hopeful present rather than leave him lost in the meanders of memory.

They barely had the time to see a younger and bloodied Draco being pushed into Hogwarts' open gates and stumbling through, followed by a harrowed and seething Snape. The young man made to run, carried along by the instinct of the half-dead that urges them to run, run in the hope of reclaiming a bit of their lost life, but the Potions master stopped him, gripping his shoulder tightly.

“I want you to listen to me now, Draco,” Severus Snape hissed, “and listen to me well. If you want to live—mind you, you probably won't, anyway—you're going to grovel, kneel, scream, and cry until you think you can take no more, then scream and cry some more until, hopefully, he gets tired. And when I try to save your miserable skin, you will agree—will agree to anything and everything—because that is all I can do for you and your moth—that is all I can do. Are we understood?”

The younger version of Draco, looking very much like a terrified little boy, nodded frantically, and was grabbed by Snape. Ginny felt herself Apparating with them, but Draco's willpower seemed to kick in when, instead of following the two escapees, they found themselves facing the Dark Lord, hours or more later—the young woman did not know. His skeletal form was enshrouded in a dark cloak, billowing ominously though there was no wind, dramatically hiding his abnormal body. He oozed power and malevolence more violently than he had during his battle against Dumbledore at the Ministry, and Ginny shuddered from the retrospective awareness of the power he had gained in little more than a year.

Around him stood the Death Eaters, staring down at the crumpled shape at their Lord's feet. Ginny followed their gaze and bit back a sob, which was shortly followed by an intense wave of nausea. Draco's hair, matted with blood but still visibly fair, was all that could reveal his identity at this point. His face was buried in the crook of his arm, but if it looked anything like his bruised, bloody, and—judging by the angle—broken hand, it was probably as close to a mangled heap of flesh as a face could get without losing such appellation. In anguish, Ginny looked around her, feeling too sick to look at the boy—he had been but a boy, then!—and horrified by the observers' passivity.

“Well, then, Draco,” Voldemort said slowly, his voice saccharine sweet and chilling to the bone, “I believe we are done here.”

He extended his hand once more, eliciting no reaction from Draco's battered form, and prepared to cast a spell when one of the Death Eater stepped out of rank.

“My Lord, if I may—” he said, and Ginny suppressed a gasp upon recognizing her Potions professor's voice.

Slowly, Voldemort turned toward Severus Snape, his face concealed by the shadow of the cloak but his entire demeanor conveying a deceptively benign and intrigued attention.

“What is it, Severus? Surely you are aware of how essential it is for failures to be punished,” Voldemort said patiently, although the implications of his words were impossible to miss.

“Indeed, my Lord, but…” Snape hesitated, as though thinking. “Potter saw that failure and, being the gullible fool that he is, will undoubtedly take this for a change of heart. If Draco were to return, alive, Potter would doubtlessly vouch for him—“

“Thereby granting him asylum…” Voldemort continued

“And possibly even including him in his ridiculous plans to defeat you, my Lord,” Snape added.

“A Trojan horse of sorts,” Voldemort said, and chuckled mirthlessly.

Snape nodded in silence, and nothing could be heard for several minutes. Draco, from the corner of his eye, saw his wife stealing aghast glances at the memory of him that lay on the floor, agonizing, and was grateful for the shimmer of tears he saw in her eyes.

“Very well, then,” Voldemort said at last, but raised his wand nonetheless. “He will live, for now. Crucio,” he then added casually, and Draco's tortured figure let out a bloodcurdling scream.

Draco quickly took Ginny to another memory, knowing that the minutes—or hours—that had followed would be no different from those that had preceded them. When the mists that surrounded them had once again dissolved, Draco and Ginny stood by a gnarled tree in the middle of a swamp, facing a tired and grim looking Draco who was already but a shadow of his former, childish self. His shoulders had broadened—his torn, dirty shirt revealing about as much as it hid—and his face and limbs were caked with blood, although none of his wounds seemed too serious. He ducked in time to avoid a curse, and Ginny whirled to find Rabastan Lestrange, his dark hair tied back and his face equally bruised, with his wand pointed at his nephew.

The younger Draco shouted a curse Ginny couldn't even recognize and Rabastan deflected it, casting another one with such professional determination that the witch could not repress a feeling of relief at the memory of his death. People who could kill as if they were signing a business contract should not be allowed to wander freely, she thought, immediately remembering that such was unfortunately the case. At her side, Draco seemed more composed than he had in the earlier memory.

“Ducking won't do the trick, boy!” Rabastan roared as he advanced on Draco, casting spell after spell and pushing the young man into the mists that surrounded them. “You have to atta—”

“Sectusempra!” Draco barked, and Rabastan, surprised, saw the blood spurting from his wounds before he realized that this was a curse he did not know.

A powerful blow sent Draco to the ground, his neck bleeding from the gash freshly imprinted there. Fenrir Greyback emerged from the mist and licked his fingers with obvious delectation.

“You should also consider the fact that you'll rarely be fighting one on one, little boy,” the werewolf purred, grinning. “Now let's see if you can fight a werewolf and a Death Eater,” he suggested as Rabastan, having mended his wounds, headed menacingly for Draco, “but be ready to pay the price if you can't.”

The memory faded as Draco murmured to Ginny, “I wasn't able to fight them off that time, and it took me a while before I could surprise Fenrir, but when I did…” He grinned darkly. “If he were alive, he would still remember it.”

Ginny shuddered and belatedly came to the conclusion that a man who can best a werewolf and a Death Eater should not be trifled with. Draco took her through the months of June and July quickly, affording her little more than flashes of his training under his Lestrange aunt and uncle's egid. What she did catch, though, was his progressive transformation from a scared young man to a scarred, fearsome man—a man who, having added several Death Eaters' heteroclite fighting techniques to the skills in boxing and fencing taught by his father since he could walk, became little more than a human weapon.

Draco watched as his younger self learned to fear no one but the Dark Lord and his own weakness, astounded at the impudence with which he had smirked at Bane Danielson upon defeating the werewolf in free combat or failed to help his Aunt Bellatrix up after besting her for the first time. It wasn't recklessness, as it may have appeared to Ginny, so much as the understanding that only strength would prevent those wolves from tearing out his throat—Bellatrix included—and that only the promise that he would not fail his Lord a second time would save his mother and father.

Once again they found themselves facing Voldemort, although the Draco Malfoy who was kneeling before him looked nothing like the one who had writhed at his feet two months prior. The sun shone brightly on the deserted plain they stood in, so desolate and empty that it appeared unreal, and Ginny absentmindedly noted that she had expected Death Eater meetings to always take place during the night. There were fewer hooded figures than there had been the night of Dumbledore's death, but the shadows they cast populated the memory with intangible darkness.

“They say you've become quite adept at fighting,” Voldemort said softly. “Are you willing to fight for me, Draco Malfoy?”

“Yes, my Lord,” Draco intoned obediently.

“Sadly, I have better uses for you than sending you on the battlefield so soon, and my mark would prevent you from accomplishing your mission. Therefore, you are dispensed from bearing the Mark, although do not for an instant presume yourself to be anything but my soldier.”

“No, my Lord.”

Voldemort smiled and his eyes gleamed, a quick, reddish fire in the penumbra of his hood.

“You are going to return to the Ministry. If, as Severus suggested, Potter vouches for you, they will grant you asylum—a place in the Ministry, a job, anything. Make sure that they do, or you will be of no use to me, and let me assure you that Fenrir will be delighted to pay your mother a visit.”

Salacious laughs erupted from the assembled Death Eaters and Draco suppressed a tremor of fear and anger. His older self, incapable still of dealing with the memory, clenched his fists, knowing he was as powerless of changing the past as he had been of changing the present whilst it took place.

“Now, then,” Voldemort went on, and Ginny detected in his voice the same, almost childish, eagerness Tom Riddle had displayed when rambling about the ways in which he would kill Harry, “all we need to do now is provide you with a convincing alibi.”

A look of incomprehension fell upon Ginny's face, but both Draco's eyes narrowed, indicating that at neither time had they doubted the meaning of such words.

“There's this intriguing word in old German,” Voldemort said casually, “which means `flesh' and evolved to mean `arrow' in many Romance languages. Fitting, don't you think?” he asked rhetorically, then flicked his wand and added, “Flikki.” (2)

Three arrows shot from the wand, burying themselves deeply into Draco's chest before he had the chance to react. Immediately Draco changed memory, but not before Ginny could hear Voldemort observing to Draco, whose shirt was rapidly staining with blood, what amazing things Muggle inventions could do.

There was a flash during which Draco remembered being thrown against Hogwarts' gates, but he passed out quickly, and woke up in a foreign bed in a too small room, with a mass of red hair resting on his lap.

“You were awake?” Ginny asked, surprised, so certain was she that he would have pushed her away if that had been the case.

“Sometimes,” he said neutrally.

But as Draco carried them through one memory after the other, she saw him, watching her sleep by his bedside; saw him slipping to the loo at night and peering about, studying his surroundings carefully; saw him brusquely thanking her mother when she brought him food in bed or glaring fiercely at her brothers whenever they dropped by to keep an eye on him. She saw him, completely aware of the protection the Weasleys believed they were affording him, and anger surged within her at the thought that this had not been enough for him to spare them. Draco felt her grow tense and would have tried screening her thoughts had he not understood that employing Legilimency would inevitably have broken their truce.

Quickly, Draco took them through his lengthy trial at the Ministry, at the issue of which he had been acquitted thanks to Harry Potter and Arthur Weasley's vouching for him. The following months passed by in a haze, and from the bits and pieces she managed to grasp, Ginny inferred that Draco had worked at the International Magical Trading Standards Body—a position that, if she knew her father's train of thoughts, was meant to keep the young man busy enough that he could not meddle with war-related things and, at the same time, kept him away from departments where sensitive information was being dealt.

All of a sudden they were engulfed by darkness, again, although it was that of a dimly lit room with a roaring fire. Draco, clad in the prune robes of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, bowed to the back of the armchair facing the fire, around which was wound the thick, scaly body of a snake. Ginny clung on to Draco instinctively, remnants of her first years at Hogwarts brought forth by the serpentine creature.

“I am tired of waiting, young Malfoy,” came Voldemort's voice from the armchair.

“I'm sorry, I—“

“Be quiet,” Voldemort hissed. “I want information, soon. Or you'll be wishing our sweet Cissy were dead rather than paying for your mistakes.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Draco said impassibly.

A skeletal, whiter-than-chalk hand stuck out from the armchair, dismissing the young man with a sharp, impatient gesture, and once again the Pensieve's white mists wrapped themselves around the couple, taking them to a room which Ginny had only ever seen in Percy's last memory: a courtroom in the Ministry. She disengaged herself from Draco's hold, standing tall and as straight as her pregnancy allowed, afraid of finally seeing her husband's side of the story. His memory counterpart, looking grim and desperate, sat on the floor of the courtroom with his head in his hands, immobile as a statue. Suddenly, the sound of voices could be heard and Draco looked up, his eyes rimmed with red, his cheeks glimmering with trails of dried tears. Lithely, he stood up and slid between two rows of seats, crouching so that the individuals who then walked into the courtroom would not see him.

“If only you could convince them to come out of hiding, we might stand a chance,” came Rufus Scrimgeour's easily recognizable voice, and next to him stood Percy Weasley. “Surely their siding with us would drive many wizards to our ranks.” He motioned for Percy to sit. “Few wizards 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, his fear, to justify his having joined the Death Eaters. And you know what? He will walk free.”

The young Weasley's head snapped toward Scrimgeour. Surprise and incredulous anger twisted its lines. Ginny looked up at Draco to find him emotionlessly staring at the chair as he imagined his father sitting there—as, she recalled, Draco himself had sat during the trial that had declared him innocent. She realized that he had been innocent, then, and that the Ministry's mistake, coupled with Voldemort's orders, had contrived to make him less so.

“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, then pulled a piece of parchment and quill from his robes. He began writing something, 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 a good man go to them. 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. As they walked out of the courtroom, Draco rose in silence, pulled out his wand, and whispered, “Wingardium Leviosa”. The parchment slipped from Scrimgeour's pocket and floated toward Draco, who, when he wrapped his fingers around it, felt like Destiny had handed him salvation on a silver platter.

“I saved my mother, that day,” Draco said dryly. “I don't expect you to understand, much less forgive me, but she was all I had left. I hoped the Death Eaters would be able to convince this `old and respectable family of wizards' to join them, although I suppose that was foolish of me.”

That's when it hit her, the fact that he used exactly Scrimgeour's words.

“You've watched this memory several times, haven't you?” she asked, stunned.

Draco nodded dejectedly, muttering, “So foolish,” and then turned to face her, his eyes bright and frightening. He grabbed her by the shoulders.

“I didn't know it was them,” he grit out, and the words, unbidden but unstoppable, poured from his mouth. “I suppose I should have guessed they'd choose Percy as their Secret Keeper, but it was too obvious. No one in their right mind would have done that, so I simply didn't think of it, and I figured the Dark Lord would be pleased at the thought of recruiting more able, pure-blood wizards.” He punctuated his words with gentle shakes, but Ginny allowed him to, knowing that he had never allowed anyone to see him as he looked then, desperately guilty and made vulnerable by the power to sentence an entire family to death. “And yes I would have done it again had I known, because it was my mother or yours, Weasley, but I knew them and they protected me and I just—I—“

Draco fell to his knees, clutching to Ginny's arms as he did, and pressed his forehead against her prominent belly, the white mists enveloping them smoothly. They found themselves back into the study, he gripping on to her hips as though she were a lifesaver, she running her hands through his hair in an attempt to soothe him.

“I couldn't sleep for days,” he whispered, and his voice broke down.

She could have answered that she hadn't slept for days either, nor stopped crying for weeks, but didn't find it within herself to do so, because she knew she would have done the same had any of her brothers' lives been on the line. Ginny let Draco hold her soundlessly, growing increasingly cold and numb, keeping enough distance so as not to feel his pain lest she begin experiencing it as well. At last she pulled him up to his feet, pushing stray strands away from his face, and holding his face with her small hands, she kissed him on the lips, softly, in a way that was neither welcoming nor neutral, in a way that sealed their truce and promised reprieve, all in due time. She made to exit the room, leaving him there, standing, unsure of what he had done.

“You know, about Persephone…” she added without turning around

“Yes?”

“… She also forgave him for taking her away from her family. It just took some time.”

(1)While I do not think of this as an idea stolen from another D/G author so much as an applicable parallel with mythology, I'd like to take a second to recommend an exquisite fic I read a while ago, based on the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice, by tudorrose1533: Under, which can be found at the following URL: http://www.dracoandginny.com/viewstory.php?sid=5065&warning=2

(2)I got the idea of an arrow-shooting spell from JKR (apparently it was a favorite of the Appleby Arrows' supporters), and found the history of the word (“fleche” in French, which sounds a lot like “flesh”) in my Dictionnaire Historique de la Langue Francaise. Amazing what you learn thanks to Harry Potter!

(3) This is actually in reference to a scene I had meant to include earlier in the story, arhem. That is, it's part of the rewrite, but I'll be posting everything at once when it's all re-read and corrected. However, should you care for a little “preview of that scene”, go to: http://ogygiasylph.over-blog.com/

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27. Old friends

Note: So, uh… I changed my mind about the chronology a few weeks ago. Imagine that everything has been pushed back by a few years i.e. that we are now in year 2001. Yes, I know, it's weird, not to mention confusing, but it should make more sense when I rewrite this story and make it all stick. I apologize profusely.

May 2001.

Clervaux, Luxembourg.

Shehzin stared nervously at Izha, whom she could barely see from all the steam in the room. Ginny had disappeared beneath the foam of the pool a minute or more ago, and Shehzin, having earlier admitted her distrust of water, began fidgeting.

“Don't you think she—ah!” she squealed when two hands grabbed her ankles and, tipping her over, pushed her underwater.

A few seconds later, Shehzin and Ginny's faces emerged from the soap bubbles, the latter one bright and smiling, the former clearly disgruntled. Shehzin dejectedly pulled out the ties that kept her now drenched hair in place, and wiped her face.

“I wasn't going to get my hair wet,” she groaned, glaring at Ginny.

“I know,” she retorted, “so I decided to take care of it for you. Relax. Enjoy. At least try to look happy when you're spending outrageous amounts of your husband's money.”

“You shouldn't do that, you know.”

“What, spend Draco's money?”

“He seemed happy enough about it,” Izha pointed out.

“No, I mean go under like that for such a long time. It's not… natural… And it can't be good for the babies, either.”

Ginny rolled her eyes and swam over to the side of the pool, along which Izha was peacefully resting.

“Don't do this, you'll hurt the babies,” she parroted. “Ginevra, think of your sons, stop running around, Ginevra, the boys—Izha, honestly, am I doing anything wrong?”

“Not that I can think of,” Izha said, smiling benevolently.

“There,” Ginny said, and stuck out her tongue at Shehzin, who interrupted her laborious breast-stroke to throw water at the redhead. “Besides, I deserve it.”

“Oh you do, do you?” Shehzin smirked.

Ginny, her elbows resting on the pool's rim, nodded emphatically.

“Do you realize that I did not have a single evening to myself this past week? There were dinners, galas, inaugurations, cocktails, and Merlin knows what else with Draco's business partners and bloody entourage and he insisted that I come with him everywhere!”

“You could have refused,” Shehzin said, letting her head roll back and closing her eyes as her feet gently stirred the water around her.

“No, he said he really wanted me to be there.”

“If I recall correctly,” Izha interrupted, “he said he needed you there.”

“Same thing,” Ginny said, although her blush indicated just how tactfully he had convinced her that he indeed needed her by his side.

“Hmm,” Shehzin hummed, not even bothering to dignify that with a proper answer. “So you got half of the week off, and Izha too?”

“And you as well, apparently,” Ginny said, “although why Blaise would actually want you to hang out with us, I wonder.”

“Hmm,” she said again, then, without preamble, added, “I'm starved. Do you want to go get lunch?”

Izha shot her an intrigued look which neither woman caught.

“Sure. Let's,” Izha acquiesced and, pushing on her arms, she hoisted herself out of the water.

Ginny inelegantly paddled toward the ladder, shortly followed by Shehzin. Izha followed their progress, barely dissimulating a smile when Shehzin climbed the ladder as awkwardly and gingerly as Ginny had, although her waist showed no sign of pregnancy. Immediately, fluffy towels floated toward the three women, wrapping around them and suffusing their bodies with gentle warmth. Ginny shook her head, sending droplets of water about, and Shehzin slapped her arm, threatening to drop her towel in the process. Izha laughed softly.

“So, did you and Draco start thinking about names for—“ Izha began.

“Ze Babees?” Ginny asked, making a dramatic gesture. “No, we didn't. I knew I was forgetting something before I left.”

“Do you have any ideas? Names you would like?” Izha urged her on.

They walked out of the pool-room after having slipped on sandals, going past the hammam and inside garden, until they found themselves in the entrance hall of the spa. Wide and circular, with a ceiling that naturally seemed to give way to tree-tops and an immaculate blue sky, the white-marble atrium breathed of purity and good health. Ginny could definitely imagine coming once a month for a week-end of self-indulgence and relaxation, although knowing the woman, she would probably find an even calmer clinic in Swtizerland or Monaco—which made her wonder why Draco had offered her a stay in that particular spa because although she was having an amazing time, she couldn't imagine her husband doing anything without a specific idea in mind.

“Uh… No, I don't know. I mean, Hermione took both Harry and Arthur, which would have been my first choices. Besides, I doubt Draco would like that,” she added seriously but not darkly.

“What about you, Shehz?”

“We decided on Suleiman (1), after my great-grandfather,” Shehzin answered mechanically, then stopped and stared, open-mouthed, at Izha.

“Did you—?“ she began, and the look on Izha's face told her everything she needed to know.

“Merlin's beard!” Ginny said, wheeling around to stare at Shehzin. “You're pregnant?”

And as Shehzin's reaction to Izha's question was revealing enough, Ginny did not even wait for her friend's answer to throw her arms around her—bumping both their occupied bellies against each other—and laughed wildly.

“We're pregnant, we're pregnant!” she sang, happy and relieved that she would have another friend to share the joys and difficulties of being mother.

Izha stared at them, imperturbable, unaffected as always by others' spurts of agitation and childishness. She was surprised when a couple and their child, watching her friends giggling in delight, stopped in their tracks.

“Blimey, is that—Ginny?” the woman asked.

Ginny let go of Shehzin, who stepped back, having grown accustomed to random people walking up to her friend and asking her whether she remembered them—an event whose frequency had noticeably increased when Draco, harrowed by his wife, had dismissed her two body-guards. But whereas the young woman usually did not acknowledge her would-be acquaintances, this time her mouth dropped open and her lips quivered, as though she were hesitating between a smile and tears, a dilemma made obvious by the sudden shimmer in her eyes.

“Remus? Tonks?” she whispered disbelievingly.

“Well, actually… It's back to Nymphadora,” Tonks admitted sheepishly, pointing to her short, but dark brown, hair. “Respectability, motherhood, and all that,” she added, grinning.

“Come now, you know you love it,” Remus teased her, and there was a tender fire in him that Ginny barely glimpsed on the day of their wedding and that, she assumed, had been emboldened by years of marriage.

`We'll see you in the dining room,” Izha said, discreetly pushing Shehzin in that direction.

“I'm not done with you yet,” Ginny said, waggling a finger at Shehzin, although her mind was clearly elsewhere.

“Yes, but neither are they with you,” Shehzin replied, smirking, and left Ginny with her old friends.

They stared at each other awkwardly for a few seconds, and then Tonks walked over to Ginny and hugged her fiercely.

“It's so good to see you,” she said, and Remus nodded, and hugged Ginny as well, although he remained, as always, a bit gauche and shy. The roundness that interposed itself between them didn't make it any easier.

“And who may that be?” Ginny asked, smiling at the little boy sitting calmly in his stroller, eyes bright with a mischief that was inherently his mother's. (2)

A little boy whose impressive mass of shaggy hair was electric blue.

“This is Faolan (3),” Tonks said, squatting to look at her son, clearly completely under his charm. “Say hello, sweetums.”

The tips of Faolan's hair slowly turned pink, then regained their original—if, perhaps, not natural—blue color.

“He doesn't say much, yet,” Remus said apologetically. “But I think he likes you, because his hair usually turns green when he isn't happy.”

“Incredible,” Ginny murmured, and carefully kneeled before either Tonks or Remus could stop her. “Hello, Faolan,” she said very seriously. “I'm Ginny. I'm a friend of your mum and dad, and I am really, really happy to meet you.”

The little boy then smiled tranquilly, and Ginny had no trouble recognizing Remus' serene smile in the child's younger features. She looked up to see both Lupins casting her a curious look, filled with an odd mixture of weariness and care.

“So, Ginny, how have you been?” Remus asked at last.

“I've been well,” Ginny said, and knew she believed it to be true.

“'That the work of my cousin?” Tonks asked, nodding to the rounded belly.

“Yes. They're twin boys.”

“Congratulations,” Remus said, if a bit sternly. “We heard about your, ah—identity a few weeks ago. Needless to say, we were surprised.”

“But then we asked Hermione and she explained everything,” Tonks went on, increasingly animated. “That was wicked of you to do that!”

“And by wicked she means reckless, pure folly, madn—“

“I know,” Ginny interrupted him, absently thinking that she should be offended by Remus' scolding tone and yet sufficiently at peace with herself to not take offense. “It doesn't matter anymore.”

“But Hermione said Draco—“ Remus added, lowering his voice, suddenly thick with anger and menace.

“Remus,” Ginny stopped him. She placed a hand on his shoulder. “I'm well. It's all settled. And… I'm with Draco now. For better or for worse,” she added with a shrug and a smile, “but willingly so.”

She had never before phrased it as such, even to herself, but the moment she said it she knew it to be true true. She had managed to fall for Draco, intermittently, when she could forget who he had once been; the conviction she could do it again and be happy with the man Draco Malfoy had become firmly established itself in her mind.

“Ah, well, there's no point in trying to discuss this now,” Tonks pointed out, and a quick glance about them revealed, as expected, the spa's rather eminent clientele—a group of wizards amongst which one would not wish to cause scandal, much less share a secret.

“You're absolutely right, love,” Remus said, tenderly wrapping his arm around his wife. “Until when are you here?”

“We're leaving in two days.”

“Speaking of we—“ Remus began, just as Tonks exclaimed, “Great! We just got here, so we'll see you a little bit.”

“Sounds great,” Ginny said, beaming. She was truly delighted to find them here, along with their adorable little boy. “My friends are probably waiting for me, but hopefully I'll see you later?”

“Of course,” Remus said, and Ginny had the feeling she was in for a long and harrowing discussion, but the pleasure of their company would be well worth it. “How does dinner sound?”

“Amazing.”

“And bring your friends, too,” Tonks added, earning herself an inscrutable look from Remus.

“I don't think—“

“Don't be silly, it'll be great. They seem very nice, don't they?” she asked Faolan, who nodded vigorously as his hair turned a faintish pink. “Please, Remus?”

The look on Tonks' face was so overwhelmingly cute that it begged for anyone to indulge her, and Ginny saw that Remus, despite the years spent in his wife's company, fell for it immediately, not even noticing how she had subtly increased the size of her eyes, length of her lashes, and roundness of her lips to create herself an almost baby-ish face. It warmed Ginny's heart. She just had to fight the urge to laugh.

“Sure, yes, if you want,” he relented, and Tonks threw her arms around his neck and kissed him soundly on the lips.

Ginny saw little Faolan staring wide-eyed at his parents with a disgusted look on his face, his hair smoothly going from blue to green. She kneeled by him and ruffled his hair; that immediately disrupting its color-change, and within seconds both Ginny and Faolan were grinning widely. She coughed.

“Well then. I'll be going, and see you tonight?” Ginny said.

“Shall we say nine? It's a little after Faolan's bedtime,” Remus suggested.

“Perfect. See you tonight,” Ginny said, and quickly headed for the dining room; she was starving.

When it was warm enough, as was the case on this particular day, guests could have dinner on the terrace, a wide, half-disk of marble seemingly grown straight from the ravine's façade. Chairs and tables of fine wood, polished and encrusted with shards of semi-precious stones, allowed for lunch to be taken above the canopy, suspended between forest and sky. The torturous valley shone green and grey under midday's relentless sun, and from the little village of Clervaux came the sound of the church bells, signaling noon.

“Right on time,” Izha said without lifting her nose from the wine list when Ginny arrived at the table where she and Shehzin sat, looking down on the breath-taking view. “Mmh…That Chardonnay looks delicious.”

“Really?” Shehzin asked. “I was thinking of ordering a Sauvigny.”

“Oh, you won't be ordering anything from that list,” Izha said, her eyes still glued to the menu.

“It's not good for the baby,” Ginny dutifully repeated to a stupefied Shehzin. “Alcohol apparently can cause malformations or something. At least that's what Muggle science says.”

“Why would you know Muggle science, Izha?” Shehzin enquired good-naturedly.

“It's a long story,” Izha retorted, snapped the wine-list shut, and looked up, smiling. “So. Suleiman, is it?”

Shehzin nodded, beaming.

“Blaise agreed immediately. We're hoping it'll mollify my family, and he said he really didn't care what his mother had to say about how it's an improper name for a British wizard.”

“And mind you, she will say it, and many more horrendously vicious things,” Ginny said. “Then again, after calling her children Blaise and Serafina, I feel like she really shouldn't be allowed to comment.”

“I happen to like Blaise,” Shehzin interrupted.

“Maybe that's why you're married to him,” Ginny said sweetly, and Shehzin made a face.

“And don't you forget it,” Blaise's unmistakable voice whispered into her ear.

Shehzin, startled, turned around abruptly, surprised to find her husband clad in a white shirt and linen pants that admirably complemented his ebony skin, a conspiratorial smile on his face.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Ginny said pleasantly. Instinctively, she looked around.

“He isn't here, gorgeous,” Blaise said as he took a seat between Izha and Shehzin, not even bothering to dodge the light punch the latter subsequently directed at him. “Contrary to popular belief, Draco and I are not joined at the hip.”

“Could have fooled me,” Ginny said, acknowledging with a laugh his having caught her red-handed.

“Then again, you should know that the only person Blaise is not keen on letting out of his sight is Shehzin,” Izha pointed out. “Although we might have to add Suleiman to that list soon.”

“You told them?” Blaise asked, nothing but his raised eyebrow indicating that he was surprised.

“Izha guessed,” Shehzin admitted.

“Midwives tend to have a knack for these things.” Izha shrugged when Blaise shot her an inquisitive look.

“What do you think of the name?” Blaise asked immediately.

“What do I—?“

“What do you see for our son, should he bear that name?”

“Would you like me to look?” Izha asked, peering meaningfully in his eyes, while Shehzin and Ginny exchanged puzzled glances.

“What do you mean, `look'?” Ginny asked, not liking the turn the conversation was taking.

“Wizarding midwives are particularly good at sensing the destiny of a child in its mother's womb,” Blaise explained. “Are you capable of doing that?”

A fleeting shadow crossed Izha's face.

“Yes, I am… powerful… enough to sense what awaits your son.” When Shehzin shot Blaise a worried look, unacquainted with the nearly predatory curiosity she saw on his face, Izha added, “But I will only tell you that the name fits him. Teach him well, and he will be wise, and strong. Do not rush him, for his quietude will be unlike either of your energy and determination, but allow him to delve too deep and he will fall prey to the fascinating meanders of the wizard mind.”

“Balance, as always,” Ginny murmured, surprised by the revelation of Izha's gift—if it could be called such.

“Yes, balance,” Izha said, taking her eyes away from Blaise's and sharing a look of understanding with Ginny. “Disrupt it, and you set the stage for wounds that are hard to mend.”

“The British approach to magic is just too cryptic for me,” Shehzin said, shaking her head as if to chase away her thoughts and the odd mood that had settled about them.

“I used to think so, too,” Blaise acknowledged. “And then I met Draco, and realized I had no idea just what a bloody, twisted mess it actually is. Luckily, he can play those games well enough for two, so that I find myself able to enjoy lunch with both my wife and his while he meets with the head of the state.”

“He's having lunch with Padma?” Ginny managed to blurt out, choking on her water. The thought of Draco enjoying the elegant witch's company did not please her in the very least, and the fact that she could not dismiss the woman as just another mindless tart made it all the more difficult for her to quell the spark of unease sparked by Blaise's words.

“Well, yes,” Blaise said, eyeing the champagne in the flute he twirled between his fingers. “At the Wheel of Kent (4), I believe.”

Ginny did not appear reassured by that fact—the Wheel of Kent was renowned for the wealth and political power of its guests, and being taken there was the insigne privilege of those who lead the country; not a single law hadn't been discussed there, not a single coup d'etat passed by unmentioned, not a single political campaign lead without a dinner there. Regardless, the thought of Draco and Padma, together, at a table…

Shehzin, noticing Ginny's discomfort and knowing Blaise enough to understand that there was more to this than he was willing to let on, discreetly but sharply elbowed him. He winced and, seeing that his winsome smile was incapable of appeasing her, he relented.

“Telemacchus Clearwater, Andrew Johnson, Gabriel Corner, and Theodore Nott were with them, I believe,” he added, catching the look of relief on Ginny's face and relishing the smile it brought to his wife's lips.

“Oh, politics,” Izha said softly, waving a dismissive hand, which was taken by the waiter as a cue that they were ready to order, so they did.

“You know,” Izha said all of a sudden, “if you don't want to go for the name of a constellation” Ginny snickered and shook her head vehemently “anything Roman should do. Right, Blaise?”

“Hmm?” was all he could muster, so absorbed was he in twining his fingers with Shehzin's delicate ones.

“Names. For Ginevra and Draco's children. Something Roman.”

“Oh sure, yes. Something having to do with gods. Like Bacchus and Vulcan (5), for example,” Blaise added innocently.

“Beyond the fact that I would never name my sons after these gods, it's a bit pompous to go for godly names, don't you think?”

“And Draco doesn't like what's pompous at all,” Shehzin pointed out, her tone indicating that she was being sarcastic.

“No,” Ginny said. “He likes what's elegant and expensive without being ostentatious.”

“What about emperors?” Izha suggested.

“Caesar and Marc Anthony. Then we can name our next little one Cleo, and see how that goes,” Blaise said, grinning diabolically.

“Next one?” Shehzin asked, shooting him a menacing glance. “Let's stay focused, please, unless you fancy yourself bearing the next one.”

With an unconcerned grin, Blaise backed down, certain that Shehzin would follow up with her threat, should a spell or potion permit it.

“Think about it, though. Titus, Aemilius… They have nice sonorities,” Shehzin said.

“Perhaps,” Ginny answered, although she clearly did not appear convinced, “but it sounds too… Classic…” What she meant is that she would not give her children a name sounding even remotely like Lucius. “I guess Draco and I will have to discuss it,” she said at last, hoping that this would close the conversation. It was, after all, their decision to make—not one to be discussed at lunch without the father of the primary concerned.

“So, what have you ladies been up to?” Blaise asked, capable of taking the hint when it was necessary.

“Very little,” Izha said.

“As can be expected in such a place,” Shehzin pointed out, toying with the cherry of her virgin strawberry daiquiri. “We just ran into old friends of Ginevra's as well. What a cute little boy they had!”

“Is that so?” Blaise said, and his nonchalance was anything but unfeigned.

“Yes,” Ginny said, staring him down with a tranquil smile and a steely look. “Remus and Ton—Nymphadora Lupin. I don't know if you remember them. They had to, ah—leave the country for various reasons after the end of the war.”

Blaise knew better than to pursue the topic, being well enough acquainted with the Laws of Blood Purity and both Lupins' genealogy to know the reason for their departure.

***

London.

“You knew they were going to be there, you bastard,” Blaise Zabini said lazily as soon as he had walked past the threshold of Draco's study.

“Who?” Draco asked, throwing one last look to the data he was reviewing before removing his glasses and peering up at his friend.

“You're wearing glasses now?” Blaise smirked. “Looks good on you. Very dignified.”

“Spare me the compliments, Blaise,” Draco said. “They help me find the relevant information for this case. So who did I know would be `there'?” (6)

“Lupin. And his wife. That's why you explicitly asked your secretary to send them to a spa in the middle of nowhere rather than to the one your mother prefers.”

Draco did not say a word, but his lips stretched slightly, enough to convey self-satisfaction.

“Are you out of your mind?” Blaise went on, perfectly calm. “You're setting yourself up for trouble and you know it. They're having dinner together, tonight, did you know that?”

“No, I didn't, but I expected as much.”

“So after hunting her down and threatening to kill anyone who helped her plot against you—“

“I didn't—“

“Please,” Blaise snapped. “We both know how convincingly you can menace anyone except your mother and myself, and I saw Longbottom's face a few hours after you visited him. I don't think you two were discussing Snape's teaching methods.”

“Your point?”

“What gives you the right to scare the hell out of your wife's friends and boyfriends—“

“Ex boyfriends.”

Blaise raised an eyebrow, unwilling to waste the time calling his best friend petty when he had another point to drive across.

“Right. You have no right to intimidate them like only you can, and then throw Ginevra back in their arms. It's called looking for thrills. Cheap ones, at that. You'll be dead in two weeks if you allow her to see them.”

Draco leaned back and started playing with his paper-cutter, the ghost of a mirthless smile on his lips.

“Did you know she's my cousin?” he asked, out of nowhere.

“Who, Lupin's girl? The one with a weird name? I may have heard something like that, yes, but how's that—“

“Aunt Bella had her mother killed a few weeks into the war.”

“She—what? Her sister?”

Draco nodded gravely.

“I take back what I said. I give you a week before we're all invited to your funeral. What the hel—“

“I want to make it up to her,” Draco said, slamming the paper cutter on the desk and getting up in one swift motion. “I don't know how to do that yet, but if she becomes friends with Ginevra, I might learn of something she needs, or wants. And I can give it to her.” He paced restlessly across the room. “Reparation is but a bitter compensation, but it's something I can do for Nymphadora and her family, and it's something I will do.”

“But—“

“Besides, you know how much Gin values family?”

“So it's Gin, now, eh?” Blaise asked cheekily.

Draco glared but did not respond.

“I'm giving her a family. It won't make up for the one she lost, but—“

For the first time in a very long time, Blaise saw Draco at a loss for words. However, as he wasn't one to keep his tongue in check, he carried on.

“So you're providing her with a family that conveniently happens to be your own? First Leo, then Izha, and now Lupin's girlfriend…”

“She's his wife now, and I had nothing to do with Leo. She's also good friends with Shehzin, so—“

“Draco, you consider me family?” Blaise asked, surprised, though he managed to dissimulate it behind mockery. “I'm flattered. Is this where you admit I'm the brother you never had?”

“I like to think of you as more of a partner in crime… Or a friend of convenience,” Draco said, although his grin and the sparkle in his eyes belied the cynicism of his words.

“Heartless bastard.”

“That's twice you've called me a bastard in less than five minutes, Blaise,” Draco warned him casually. “I wouldn't do it a third time.”

Blaise nodded.

“Speaking of brothers,” he said, changing topics. “Ginevra won't hear of naming your children after stars.”

“Yes, I know. Needless to say, Mother isn't very pleased about that.”

“Izha suggested Roman emperors. Granted it's not as stellar as the appellations that run in your family, but there's potential there. You could always ask Izha what she feels about some names and how they fit your sons.” Blaise felt an odd shudder course through him. “She has the power to see that.”

“I know,” Draco said, and instinct made him cast his eyes to the wooden panel behind which rested the Pensieve. “But I've grown weary of such power.”

“It's just midwife magic. There's nothing to it.”

“In magic, Blaise, there is the magic, and there is the wizard behind it. That is something our parents and peers would have done well to remember.”

(1)Suleiman: of Arabic meaning, this name means “peace”; there were a few Turkish sultans who bore that name (amongst which Suleiman the Magnificent, I believe)

(2) For whoever's interested in lame art, there will be a link to a family picture on Artistic Alley: http://www.artisticalley.org/gallery/showgallery.php?cat=500&ppuser=93822

(3)Faolan: of Irish and Gaelic origin, this name means “little wolf”

(4)In Shakespeare's King Lear, Kent is one of the few who remain loyal to old King Lear. There is a point in which he reflects on the wheel of fortune and how quickly one can go from top to bottom, and the other way around. Loyalty, betrayal, and rapid changes seem to me very emblematic of political life, and so I felt this would be an ideal place to have business meetings—particularly when they are related to politics.

(5)Bacchus was the Roman god of wine and drunkenness, while Vulcan, god of the forge and metalwork, was a hideous, deformed being—crafty, but ugly beyond measure

(6)The idea of these glasses is taken from “Sea of Walking Dreams”, by Cinnamon. Read it if you can, it's a phenomenal D/G story!

-->

• 28. Persephone's change of mind

• June , 1^st 2001

• Malfoy Manor, England.

• “Wait, wait, wait!” Ginny called as she haphazardly tried to put on her second shoe, walking down the stairs as quickly as possible. “Dra—ah!”

• She tripped as she had countless times before, and the fear of hurting her unborn babies shot through her eyes before Draco, surprised, but never one to let a woman fall, leapt and caught her.

• “Why do you always fall down these stairs?” he growled, unwilling to admit that his heart had stopped when he saw her balance failing.

• “I don't know! They're simply too steep! I—“

• “Why aren't you in Clervaux?”

• She looked up at him, stunned, and her eyebrows knit in anger.

• “Well hello to you, too.” Draco wondered for a second whether the displeasure he saw in her eyes wasn't hurt. “Just—never mind.” She made to turn, but he held her securely—a fact for which she had been grateful but moments before—and did not allow her to move.

• “Allow me to rephrase that,” he whispered in her ear. “Who do I have to thank for sending such a beautiful witch to me, one whom I presumed to be safely tucked away in a bedroom of Clervaux?”

• “Blaise,” Ginny answered in one breath, relishing the proximity her clumsiness had afforded them. Draco hadn't given her more affection than required in public functions since the night of her flight, a fact that hadn't perturbed her until now. Yet somehow this moment evoked the memory of times before he discovered her imposture—of nights when, having prevented her from splattering herself down the stairs yet again, he would “kiss her better” until the portraits hanging on the wall complained that they hadn't seen such debauchery since the night Samaël Malfoy had brought his new wife, Lilith, home, back in 1873.

• “Well then, I'll be sure to thank him profusely. Although you do realize this is just another long, boring dinner, with annoying hypocrites, and—“

• “Why, Malfoy, if I didn't know you better I'd think you're trying to get rid of me,” Ginny said coyly, naturally reverting to his surname in an unwilling reference to their school years.

• “Now what could give you that idea?” he asked softly, his lips trailing down her neck, the feather of his breath caressing her exposed skin.

• She shuddered and instinctively tilted her head back, closing her eyes with delectation. He felt her entire body become attentive, tensing like the string when the bow is bent, ready to respond to his touch in a heartbeat. When his lips met her flesh, a shudder coursed through both of them, and within milliseconds he had pulled her against him. He hadn't held her—nor any other woman, for that matter— so freely, so genuinely, since the night she had run away from the Manor. The understanding that, this time, she was absolutely in his power didn't even cross his mind as he relished the softness of her skin, the fruity, sugary perfume she liked to apply on the nape of her neck, and the way her fingers felt when they tangled themselves into his hair.

• Draco bit her shoulder gently, and her sigh was followed by her demandingly pulling his face closer to hers. When Ginny looked at him, her eyes widened slightly, her gaze acquiring that meaningful quality that she used when trying to convey a point, but he couldn't decipher it, for she had already brought his lips to hers and he stopped thinking straight.

• He kissed her feverishly and she repaid him in kind, desire churning through her like a blaze. Unused to the separation her belly created between them, she clung to him avidly, all the while shifting to afford their bodies as much contact as possible. She rubbed against him, and he thought he would go mad from want. Following a particularly languorous movement on her part, Draco picked her up—she wrapped her legs around him easily—and staggered back to the stairs, sitting her on top of him. Only when he tried to divest her of her dress, freeing a round and freckled breast in the process, did she find the will to form coherent sentences.

• “Draco. Drac—ah!” she squealed when his mouth closed around her nipple.

• “Yes, darling,” he said, smirking ever so slightly. “That's my name.”

• “No, I—Draco, stop!” she said, pushing him back and resisting the urge to laugh at the look of chagrin that crossed his face as he stared longingly at her breast.

• “Did they grow?” he asked, looking at her as a child would forbidden ice cream.

• Self-consciousness quickly replaced groggy pleasure in her eyes. She folded her arms over her torso, unable to cover the blush covering it.

• “That's none—“

• “Of my business?” he said, gently pulling her hands away, and biting his lip when he got a good, lengthy look at what they were dissimulating. “I'd say it is. My wife, my son…” He placed her arms around his neck, noting the sharp intake of her breath when her nipples brushed against his robes.

• “Mine, mine, mine,” Ginny whispered huskily. “It's all you know, isn't it?”

• “It's all I have,” he said, shrugging—a gesture which caused her to shudder, lean in, but pull back.

• “We have to go.”

• “Why?” he asked, in a way that could almost have been described as “whiny” had he been anyone other than Draco Malfoy.

• “Because, uh… It's your duty,” she said.

• “Screw duty.”

• “The only person you get to screw is me,” she said without thinking, then looked surprised at her words. She smiled sheepishly. “I mean—“

• “Really?” Draco wondered, and his face grew serious, his eyes boring through hers intently.

• “Well. If you want, I guess,” Ginny amended, feeling oddly vulnerable.

• He helped her get up and quickly straightened his robes as she rearranged her dress, then took her by the hand and hastily led her toward the door. Surprised by his reaction, Ginny followed, not comprehending his earlier, blatantly apparent desire and what she feared might be rejection. Draco seemed to sense this, and he turned to her, rooting her to the spot with that look of his that sometimes could mean so much more than he said.

• “If we don't go now, Ginevra,” he intoned slowly, “I will show you exactly how thoroughly I would prefer spending the night cheating on Duty with you. And tomorrow the paparazzi would be at our door, wondering how exactly it is that Lady Ginevra Malfoy can keep her beloved husband away from public functions.”

• “Beloved?” Ginny teased.

• “I suppose `intensely desired' would suffice,” he retorted, an eyebrow raised mockingly as he saw pink marks appearing where he had kissed his way down her neck and clavicle.

• They got into the carriage and Ginny snuggled against Draco, her head easily finding its place on his shoulder. Her spontaneous gesture filled them both with peace, as though desire could meld into affectionate comfort without threatening the feeble edifice of their relation. Uncertain of where their words would take them, Ginny took the lead in initiating a discussion she knew needed to take place.

• “So, I was thinking—“ she said softly.

• “Imagine that,” he interrupted her, and caught her hand when she tried to punch him lightly, then pressed feathery kisses on her knuckles.

• “—about the boys' names, and Izha suggested Roman emperors when I said I didn't want names of stars. Because, Draco, about those constellations—“

• “I know, Gin, I know,” he whispered. “And I was looking forward to calling our sons Castor and Pollux so much.”

• Ginny made a grimace, having expected a suggestion of the sort and disliking it entirely.

• “Although, I wouldn't mind redirecting our, ah, efforts to another type of names,” Draco went on. “To please you, evidently.”

• “Always,” Ginny said, smirking.

• Draco grinned and bit the tip of her fingers, one after the other.

• “Most of the time. How about Cassius?”

• Ginny pressed herself closer to her husband, and then, as though she wished to burry herself in his arms, she said, very softly.

• “I would prefer something that didn't end in `us'.”

• “Hmm. I suppose you find it too archaic,” Draco said neutrally, although he had no illusion regarding the provenance of her dislike for names ending like his father's had.

• “Yes,” she breathed out, sounding tremendously relieved. “Exactly. That's precisely—“

• “What you thought?” he offered. “I figured as much.”

• “What's that supposed to mean?”

• Draco shrugged, smiling, looking particularly pleased with himself.

• “Educated guess, I suppose. Caligula?”

• “Please,” Ginny snorted, and let out a rather undignified snicker. “Why not Nero while you're at it?”

• “Well, now that you mention it—“

• “No! Let's keep it simple and nice, please? Like Alexander, and—“

• “Too common, love,” Draco said, shifting so as to hold her better.

• “Philippe?” Ginny attempted. She looked up to him and gave him the wide, puppy eyes she had seen Tonks use so effectively on Remus. Draco smiled tenderly, and made to kiss her. He stopped a millimeter from her lips.

• “Maximian.”

• “No.”

• Draco kissed her.

• “Constantine.”

• “No,” Ginny said, and giggled. After he had kissed her and seemed about to suggest an additional name, she asked, “How do you know all their names, anyway?”

• “Don't tell me you don't know the history of your ancestors,” he said, his voice laced with mock surprise.

• “Your ancestors were French, Lord Malfoy,” she pointed out. “If you're so keen on knowing your ancestry, I'd look more in the Vercingetorix and Asterix area if I were you.” (1)

• “Comic books were never my thing,” Draco said absently. “And while my family does indeed come from France—I congratulate you for knowing your history, Lady Malfoy—I'll have you know that we quickly sided with the Romans, and eventually granted them a few emperors.”

• “Figures.”

• “Indeed,” Draco all but purred, sending shivers down her spine.

• The carriage chose that moment to stop, and its door opened to reveal the elaborately illuminated doorway of what Ginny knew to be the Clearwaters' home. While it did not approach the Malfoy or even Nott manors in terms of size and elegance, it was an undeniably beautiful house. A thought suddenly struck the young woman.

• “But aren't the Clearwaters of Muggle desc—“

• “Are they?” Draco asked, stepping out of the carriage and sticking his hand out to help her. “I never noticed. And they are frightfully influential, so… I doubt it.”

• The meaningful look he gave her, however, belied his words, and she was surprised by his reaction. After all, if Draco Malfoy was having dinner under the roof of a Muggle-related family, there was either more to him, or more to said family, than Ginny suspected—and she couldn't figure out which it was. She took the proffered hand and emerged from the carriage, looking absolutely radiant in her elegantly cut black dress, her cheeks and lips still pink from their earlier snog.

• “Aurelian,” Draco said as they walked toward the front steps.

• “Meaning,” she said rather than asked, barely moving her lips.

• “Golden one.”

• “Fitting,” she smirked, although she rather liked the sound of that name.

• “Why of course,” Draco retorted, sending a polite smile in the direction of some couple Ginny didn't recognize. “Malfoys never choose their offspring's names lightly.”

• “Ah, Lord Malfoy, Lady Malfoy,” Mrs. Clearwater—recognizable by her impressively curly mane of white hair—greeted them as soon as they had set foot inside the house. “I was just speaking with Miss Parkinson of Aurora's teaching methods; I always found she managed to teach her students well, without involving the nonsensical rubbish that astronomy sometimes brings forth.”

• “Aurora?” Ginny said, trying to ignore the look of undiluted contempt Pansy shot her.

• “Professor Sinistra,” the brunette filled in haughtily, “has indeed always been exceedingly professional. Rather unlike Trelawney. Or other, ill-bred teachers who roamed the corridors back in good old Dumbledore's time.”

• Mrs. Clearwater, stunned by the aggressiveness lacing Pansy's voice, shot her a surprised glance. Draco, sensing Ginny's hand tense on his arm, made to answer, but she looked up at him and shook her head softly.

• “Draco, would you mind getting me some water, please?” she asked, although her voice was stern and it was not a request so much as an implicit order. “My head hurts a bit, and I think that should help.”

• He eyed her placidly, knowing her enough to discern what was going on in her mind, but incapable of guessing how she would act, the Weasleys having always been famous for their unpredictability.

• “I'll fetch an aspirin,” Mrs. Clearwater said and quickly vanished into the crowd as Draco walked away, phlegmatically making his way toward a valet.

• Ginny turned back to Pansy who had remained silent since her snarky comment, idly tipping her glass of champagne and amusedly eyeing her detested schoolmate. They stared at each other for a few seconds, enough time for the redhead's strained smile to vanish.

• “I don't suppose you would know what aspirin is,” Ginny said, her voice kept neutral. “In fact, you probably think that Dumbledore's idea to teach Muggle Studies was an utter waste of time, but—”

• “Most of what that fool and his friends did was, indeed, an absolute waste of time,” Pansy answered smoothly.

• “Lucky none of your time was wasted, then,” Ginny retorted, her hands balled into fists at her side. Both women knew they were arguing about more than Dumbledore's choice regarding his students' education, but it was merely a matter of who would broach the topic first.

• “Oh, I lost much more than my time.”

• There was a flaw in the way Pansy looked then, the hint of something amiss in the crease her smile made in the soft whiteness of her skin. Ginny saw it because she had learned to avoid it during her years at Hogwarts, not because it portended horrendous things to come, but because it meant they were already upon her. However, she was not one to back down, and curiosity as much as exasperation pushed her to go on.

• “Is that so?” she asked, managing to convey both skepticism and contempt in a faint pout.

• “I think,” Pansy said softly, very softly, as though she were about to indulge Ginny with the secret of a lifetime, “that we should go outside.”

• Ginny nodded and headed for the first exit she could find, finding herself lucky enough that the balcony she chose was not yet occupied by guests. Pansy followed her shortly. She had gotten rid of her glass, and while the look Ginny quickly cast her did not reveal where she might have been hiding her wand, it left the young woman with the bitter certitude that Miss Parkinson, clad in a ravishing black dress, looked stunning. Ginny thought of her own figure—of her engorged breasts, impressive belly, and nearly as impressive thighs—and was glad that she, unlike Pansy, had chosen an ankle-length dress.

• Pansy, aware of the other witch's rapid scrutiny, did not even revel in the triumph of her body's condition, blissfully—or so she thought—bereft of pregnancy's torments. She walked over to Ginny.

• “Figured it was time to climb out of the dirt, Weasley?” she hissed.

• Ginny looked at her, her eyes round with surprise, and then laughed.

• “This isn't about us back then, Pansy,” she said, unsure of why she used the other woman's first name rather than her last. “It's about us today, isn't it? It doesn't matter that I'm a Weasley, or that I was poor, inelegant, and embodied everything you despised. All you care about is the fact that Draco married me. So you can dispense with the insu—“

• “Is that what you think?” Pansy interrupted her. “That we are here because of Draco? That it means nothing to me that you are a Weasley?”

• There was an almost inhuman chill to her words, an abhorrence that filtered through the tone of her voice and that appeared more than excessive given the circumstances. It unsettled Ginny, who found herself slowly, instinctively, understanding that there was more to the story than she had believed at first. She stood her ground, waiting for Pansy, who was clearly beside herself, to reveal just what had her shaking with barely contained fury.

• “Oh, I know what you're imagining,” Pansy hissed, her otherwise distinguished features twisted in a lugubrious mask. “That I still haven't gotten over Draco, that my pride is wounded from seeing your miserable filthy little self accede to a position I have long coveted. Well guess again,” she snarled, having by that point backed Ginny against the balcony's railing.

• The redhead belatedly realized that, wand or no wand, and even with the supposed protection of the crowd in the next room, she was in a rather precarious situation. Only the knowledge that Draco had seen them leave together instilled a feeling of safety in her thoughts, which otherwise hovered between weariness and morbid curiosity.

• “This probably doesn't mean a thing to you, princess,” Pansy spat, “but on the night of March 23^rd 1999, Aurors raided the Crabbe estate during a rather important ceremony.” Her voice was kept low but carried a bitter, cutting edge that felt to Ginny like nails sliding down a chalkboard. “They came upon a handful of Death Eaters, some of them well on their way to demonstrating their loyalty to Lord Voldemort in a very, very old fashioned way.”

• Pansy's gaze was steely and Ginny barely suppressed a grimace at the implications of the other woman's revelations; after all, even as a book-bound ghost, Tom Riddle had been rather explicit when it came to all sorts of Dark ceremonies, and the frightened little girl she had once been found herself awakened by the memories.

• “The Aurors arrived well into the ceremony, and, as per usual, proceeded to blast everything in sight. I believe the correct, official term for that `everything' is `any object that may threaten an Auror's safety or mission', but they usually went by `any object in sight'.”

• “I'm sure you would know,” Ginny muttered grimly.

• “Oh, I do know, because one of the families offerings to Lord Voldemort, one of the tributes so readily surrendered to him, one of those `objects in sight', happened to be my sister, still under the effect of some ancestral curse, killed by a Slashing Curse sent her way by Ronald Weasley.”

• Though Ginny was not granted recollections or thoughts of the moment, she saw the murder buried deep in the other woman's face, wrapped and folded around every fiber of her being, left to rot in the confines of her memory and to take Pansy's quietude away with it.

• “Ron wouldn't—“ Ginny began.

• “What do you think Aurors do, Ginevra?” Pansy interrupted her sharply, an edge of hysteria creeping into her voice. “Throw petals at their enemies?” She took a deep breath, closing her eyes, and the double gesture made it look as though she were about to collapse onto herself. “I blamed my parents for it, of course—for taking Violet rather than me because she wasn't engaged to the future Lord Malfoy—but when I learned of your family's fate, make no mistake. I—was—glad,” she enunciated slowly, viciously.

• Ginny stared at her levelly, calmly, and then, before Pansy even had a chance to suspect the slightest movement, Ginny punched her in the face like her brothers had taught her, with full force and her hand appropriately fisted. The dark-haired witch fell back, although she managed to keep her balance, and pulled her wand out, staggering; Ginny had hers already trained on the other woman's chest.

• “Are you calling a blood debt, Parkinson?” Ginny asked coldly.

• “And taking a stab at ending the Weasley and Malfoy bloodlines in one duel?” Pansy retorted, wiping the blood from her mouth with the hand that wasn't holding the wand. “Do you really believe Draco would let me?” Her smile was wistful and feral, as though measuring the mirthless irony of the situation.

• “Do you think I would let you?” Ginny retaliated.

• Pansy smirked, conveying a supreme amount of disdain, though the effect was somewhat lessened by the growing puffiness of her lip. And then, suddenly, as though a particular thought had occurred to her and she saw at last all the futility of their situation, she shrugged and lowered her wand. It disappeared smoothly, and Ginny wearily put hers away as Pansy casually headed for the ballroom. Unable to discern the cause for such a change in attitude, the younger woman was too surprised by the sudden reprieve to expect the chilling, inhuman carelessness in Pansy's voice when, without turning, she said:

• “That night the Weasleys became my enemies. Consider yourself lucky to be a Malfoy, but have the presence of mind not to expect anything from me. For society and in society, you are nothing more than Draco's wife; in my heart, you will always remain Ronald Weasley's sister; do not allow me to bare my heart as you did tonight, Ginevra, or the one of us who isn't a puddle of bloody flesh on the carpet of a boudoir will be sent straight to Azkaban.”

• Pansy walked on and disappeared into the crowd, having first cast a potent Healing charm on her swollen face. She left behind her a stunned, but admiring woman, one who wondered at the effort it had taken to let go of hate and honor, to abandon the pursuit of revenge. But she had seen the other woman's shoulders drop into relaxed inattentiveness, and she had the distinct feeling that, had she perused Pansy Parkinson's pointy, doll-like face after her last words, she would have found it serenely vacant of all anger.

• Slowly, surely, Ginny understood.

• “The difficult part isn't letting go of the hate,” she said to herself, envying Pansy for the minutes of tranquility she had gained on her. “It's letting go of the vengeance…”

• But before she could let the realization envelop and soothe her, she saw a thin, frail shadow profiling itself on the terrace's tiles. She turned around to find a little girl with hair like a nest of brown, coppery snakes, standing in the doorway. She wore a bright yellow nightgown. She clearly lived here. She—

• “You're not Penelope or Telemacchus' sister, are you?” Ginny asked dumbly.

• The girl looked at her, flabbergasted, then started laughing, laughing so hard she looked like she would never stop. There was a frankness, a freedom in that laughter, that Ginny couldn't help but recognize without being able to place it.

• “No,” the little managed to say between two giggles. “No.” She laughed some more, an adorable little piece of a girl, and when, finally, she sobered up, she acquired a very proper dignity that somehow clashed with her earlier display of mirth. “Mummy said you should come. Come,” she repeated for good measure, holding out her hand expectantly.

• Ginny did not bother to ask why the girl's mother—whom she assumed to be Penelope, if the hair and homely slippers were any indication—wished to see her, for she doubted that she had divulged her intentions, and took the girl's minuscule hand into her own.

• “So what's your name?” she asked as she allowed herself to be lead down a corridor, past several doors.

• “Pandora (2). It's a silly name, really,” she added immediately, utterly nonplussed by the fact.

• “Not as silly as Ginevra,” Ginny said offhandedly, relishing the surprise on the girl's face, shortly replaced by what could only be a smirk, the hint of a repressed smile, a guilty giggle, and, at last, a burst of laughter.

• They reached their destination, a room protective by two massive, oak doors. Agitated voices flowed from the slightly ajar entrance, and Ginny held Pandora back, leaning forward to listen. She almost laughed when she saw a similar look of stealth and concentration on the girl's face as she leaned forward, and was about to start wondering when she recognized Penelope Clearwater's voice.

• “—don't want to tell her yet. She's too young to know, and allowing her to spend more time with Ginny will soon point out the obvious, Malfoy,” she said, sounding annoyed but not reproachful. The casualness with which she called him by his last name clearly went back to their school years. “The reporters have been following you too eagerly not to see the resemblance, and I won't have Pandi in danger!”

• “Miss Clearwater,” Draco said, maintaining his cool demeanor and conveying the sincerest kind of respect, “I understand your fear, but I am convinced that both Ginevra and Pandora should be aware that—“

• “It won't make up for his death!” Penelope said sharply.

• The silence in the room was palpable, instilled with Penelope's nostalgic pain and Draco's secret, but unrelenting, guilt.

• “Look, Malfoy,” Penelope said, her voice softer—a mother's voice—“I'm very grateful for the, ah… support you have shown my family, but—”

• “I didn't—“

• “Please. You and I both know that the Clearwater's blood is not as clear as they would like it to be, and I can find no other reason for the enforcers of the Blood Purity Act to have spared our family all this time. Truly, I still don't understand why you would—“

• “The reason is mine and mine alone,” Draco said coldly.

• Pandora could almost see the intelligent, compassionate smile that lit her mother's features when she spoke next; Ginny, meanwhile, was too busy devouring the little girl with her eyes, understanding at last why she had seemed familiar, and hesitating between fervently thanking the Weasley fertility or hugging her niece on the spot.

• “Whatever role you may have played in Percival or anyone else's death,” Penelope said softly, “you have more than repaid your debt in my eyes by enabling me to raise Pandora as I wanted to. Even if it was without a father.”

• There came another, pregnant pause, and Pandora decided she had learned enough, although she still couldn't make much of the words overheard. Taking Ginny's hand, she pushed open the doors as though nothing had happened, and walked in, saying, “Mum, I found her.”

• Penelope shifted her gaze toward the newcomers while Draco, impassible as ever, felt like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders, one he had barely been aware of: the shame of taking a woman's husband and a girl's father from them. Ginny smiled at both of them, and heard the other woman whisper, quickly, quietly, “It's the only way to keep her safe,” before greeting the redhead.

• “Ginny, I'm glad to see you,” she said warmly, as though she hadn't seen her since her last visit at the Burrow a few years earlier.

• “I'm happy to see you, too, Penny,” Ginny said and they kissed, easily sealing, with pecks on the cheek and recourse to nicknames, the gap dug between Weasleys and Clearwaters following Percy's disagreement with Arthur.

• With the strategic and disciplined intelligence that had enabled her to become Head Girl, Penelope was all too aware that calling Ginny for no good reason would seem odd, but, despite her discussion with Draco, she did not wish to divulge what, for her daughter's safety, would remain her life's secret. So, before the silence could become meaningful or pressing, the green-eyed witch spoke again.

• “You are probably wondering why I wanted to see you alone,” she began, and then saw the glance Ginny shot her husband, so she added, “or with Draco. I—I just wanted to say that some people blame you for marrying him”—subconsciously Ginny stood straighter, her chin raised defiantly and not a hint of remorse in the planes of her face—“but I don't. I don't, because I think you, of anyone, deserve a chance at happiness, and I think—I believe Malfoy can give it to you.”

• “Naturally,” Draco said self-satisfiedly, and rose with feline grace, walking over to where Ginny stood.

• “So I wanted to tell you that, and that I'm sorry for not coming to you earlier. It was… Quite a shock…”

• “I understand,” Ginny said softly. “Don't be sorry. Besides, it gave me the chance to meet an adorable little girl whose name is… Wait, I can't rememb—“

• “Pandora!” Pandora squealed, then realized what she had done, and clapped both her hands on her mouth.

• When Ginny laughed she did too, and the stern expression immediately vanished from her mother's face while a slow, subtle smile crept on Draco's lips.

• “Yes. Pandora. That's it!” Ginny pretended to recall. “Tell me, Pandi, do you like stories?”

• The girl nodded so vehemently her head looked like it would unhinge. Draco kept his eyes trained on his wife, too attuned to her manipulative skills to believe her question was pointless.

• “I have this amazing story-book my grandfather gave me when I was a child no bigger than yourself, and I took it wherever I went, even as a grown woman. It speaks of worlds beyond ours, of princesses and magic carpets, of might-clubs and eclectricity…” Pandora's eyes burned with untarnished desire as Ginny went on. “If you want, I could lend it to you so you can read it.”

• Pandora was about three years old. Ginny could tell.

• “I don't know how to read,” Pandora said sadly, looking utterly miserable; getting her mother or grandparents to read her stories would be a harrowing process, for they themselves tended to be too engrossed with their own books to deign lower themselves to peruse hers.

• “Well, you could come to our home once in a while,” Draco suggested, oblivious to Penelope's murderous glare, “and maybe Ginny will read it to you.”

• “Of course,” Ginny said, glad to see he had caught on. “I would love to.”

• Instinctively the little girl turned to her mother, who was able to hide her scowl just in time.

• “Please, Mummy,” she said. “Then I wouldn't have to bother you for stories. Please?”

• “But honey, you never bother me—“ Penelope began, and saw, or rather understood, her daughter's loneliness. Her own parents had never been doting, so that she had quickly found refugee in books; who was she, so absorbed in her work that she barely saw her daughter during the week, to deny the apple of her eye an aunt who would, in the privacy of her home, give her the key to the most beautiful worlds imagination could create?

• Penelope had heard of the book: Percy often spoke of how few of their childhood nights had gone by without a bed-time story. The book never ended; the tales were countless and always new; they had lulled countless generations of Weasleys to sleep. So Penelope nodded, eliciting a cry of delight from Pandora.

• “Well then,” Penelope said, “now that you found yourself a new victim, I believe it's time for you to go to bed. Say goodnight.”

• “Goodnight, Gineva.”

• “It's Ginevr—“ Penelope began.

• “Ginny will do just fine,” Ginny said, smiling; she had had her name butchered enough as it was and understood how difficult it must be to pronounce it, particularly for a toddler.

• “Goodnight Ginny!” Pandora said as she preceded her mother in the corridor.

• “I will see you soon,” Penelope called to Ginny, clearly ignoring Draco who remained standing regally.

• Draco and Ginny remained alone in the study, hearing, despite the humdrum of the party, Pandora's insistent voice, “But please, Mum, just one story!” The office was rather small, and the wall seemed to be lined with inches of strong wood, so that the stately furniture, thick tapestries, and stuffed deer-heads made the room appear stuffed. Draco placed his hands on Ginny's shoulders, and allowed himself to breathe in the smell of hair before he spoke.

• “So you heard us.”

• She turned around, wide-eyed innocence replacing the absent-minded smile of maternity that had lit her face.

• “What are you talking about?”

• “I can see when you lie, love,” he said tenderly, although there was, as always, a strength, an edge to that tenderness that had her bound but protected, captive but willingly so. “It took me a while, but I can read you,” he ran his fingers down her neck as one would caress the back of a precious book, “like,” her blood ignited under his touch, “a,” he tangled his hands in her short hair, pushing it back from her face as though separating two pages, “book,” he whispered against her lips.

• “You're right, I heard you,” Ginny said, her voice huskier than she would have liked, although it did somewhat free her from the spell of his presence.

• “It was crafty of you to bring up story-telling, Lady Malfoy.”

• “It was cunning of you to suggest she come to our house. Penny nearly burst a vein. She blames you, too, which is rather fitting… and convenient.”

• She took a step back, smiling deviously, because it was the only way she could keep her thoughts straight. He laughed softly, acknowledging her trick, although both were aware that they had, in a way, played into each others' hands. Draco closed the gap between them.

• “I wanted you to meet her. Pandora, I mean.” He said the girl's name seriously, almost deferentially, and Ginny thought she could see it as he did see Pandora's quiet life as a chance to redeem himself. More than that, she was also a present to Ginny.

• “My niece,” she murmured happily. “First Harry Arthur, now her… I have a family.”

• “Oh, and what am I? Cat liver?” Draco growled.

• “No, you… You're more than family. You're… You, of course. And me, too. I think… I think we've become—“ Incapable to voice her thoughts, she looked down to her heavy, round belly, surprised, but not completely, to find Draco's hands resting there already.

• “Valerian,” he said.

• “What?” she asked, startled from her admittedly errant thoughts.

• “It means strength. He was a Roman emperor, too.”

• “Oh,” was all she could say, although as she had earlier that evening, she appreciated the sonority, the spirit of the name. “So it's going to be Valerian and Aurelian?”

• It felt so right, so impeccably appropriate all of a sudden, that she was surprised it had taken them so long and required so many disagreements.

• “I spoke with Pansy,” she said suddenly, but he didn't budge, his chin resting on her shoulder peacefully. “She said Ron—“

• “I know,” he interrupted her. “I was hoping she'd spare you this piece of information, but she doesn't spare anyone—least of all herself. “ He sighed. “Should I have her followed? I'll get you some bodyguards. I could—“

• “No. It's settled.”

• He manipulated her so that she faced him and stared at her, an emotion between fear and anger blazing in his eyes. She had rarely seen him so blatantly emotional.

• “You fought? Did she hurt you?”

• “No, Draco, no,” Ginny said, wincing. “Let go of my arm, will you? If it bruises people will start wondering.

• He let go reluctantly, questioning her wordlessly. She could tell he was relieved and trying rather desperately not to show it.

• “We talked, that's all,” Ginny explained. “Well,” she added as an after thought, “I may have punched her, but—“

• “You socked Pansy?”

• “She deserved it,” Ginny said grimly.

• “And she let you get away with it?”

• Ginny shook herself free from his lingering grip and, annoyed, placed her hands on her hips, glaring rather menacingly.

• “What do you mean, `She let me get away'? I can take care of myself, and she knows it. It's about time you understood that, too.”

• Draco stared at her, an eyebrow lifted to mark his incredulity, and then he frowned.

• “What about the boys, Gin? Do you think you could have handled her without hurting our sons?”

• “Yes,” she said, her voice strong and purposeful. “Yes, yes, and yes. I am strong enough for three.”

• “But will you let us be strong enough for four?” he asked meaningfully.

• She saw the questioning in his eyes, the grey of it tinged with anger still, blazing with a concern wary of revealing itself. So she looped her arm around his neck and pressed herself against him—to the extent that their progeny would allow—and kissed him soundly.

• “Yes to that, too,” she answered, beaming.

• Draco gave her his arm, and she laced her around his with ease, as though they had both been born to do this. They stepped out of the room, making their way back to the crowded salons, back to the British wizarding intelligentia, comfortably nestled in the chandelier-lit dining rooms and boudoirs.

(1) “Lucius Domitius Aurelianus (September 9, 214-September 275), known in English as Aurelian, Roman Emperor (270-275), was the second of several highly successful "soldier-emperors" who helped the Roman Empire regain its power during the latter part of the third century and the beginning of the fourth. During his reign, the Empire was reunited in its entirety, following fifteen years of rebellion, the loss of two-thirds of its territory to break-away empires (the Palmyrene Empire in the east and the Gallic Empire in the west) and devastating barbarian invasions. His successes started the end of the empire's Crisis of the Third Century.” (Hurry for Wikipedia!)

• (2)Sadly for France's admittedly grandiose History, Asterix never was the king or leader of Gaul. He is but an (incredibly funny) figment of Rene Goscinny and Albert Uderzo's astounding imaginations.

• (3)Pandora was, according to Greek mythology, the first human woman; she was given by Zeus to Epimetheus, bearing little more than a box which she was told not to open. Being a woman (or so the story goes, because I would say “being a human”), she opened it, and all the ills escaped from it: hate, despair, greed, disease, etc. (i.e. she is the source of human misery). Only hope remained at the bottom of the box, and that is, in a way, all that is left to us mere mortals. Why Pandora? Well, for one, her name starts with a P, like Percival and Penelope. And Pandora, like Percy, was the agent of her peers' downfall through innocent betrayal. But she also symbolizes hope, and that is why (I believe), her parents named her that.

• (4) Valerian was Roman emperor who met a tragic end—as did most emperors. His name has an interesting meanin, though, so I chose to keep it.

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29. Unwelcome surprises of the pleasant sort

June , 5^th 2001

• Malfoy Manor, England.

• “Draco, please. I would really like to resume—“

• “No,” he answered, searching through his drawers and pulling out a set of papers which he began perusing.

• “But I—“

• “No. You'll be busy enough with the babies,” he said without looking up.

• “But after they—“

• He stopped reading and stared at her, his face devoid of emotions, his voice neutral. The morning daylight streamed through the windows left ajar, bright and cool like only winter and morning daylight can be.

• “Gin, we've already discussed this. It is absolutely unheard of for a Lady Malfoy to hold a job. And one as a Mediwitch, at that!”

• “What's wrong with being a Mediwitch?” Ginny snapped, annoyed at his persistent narrow-mindedness.

• “Blood, disease, people… Need I say more?” he enumerated, waving his hand as though he were chasing flies.

• “Might I point out that—“

• “No, you may not point out, Ginevra, or continue your training as a Mediwitch. End of discussion.”

• He returned to his papers. Accustomed to having his every whim satisfied and every displeasure eradicated, he was surprised when the stack disappeared from between his hands. He looked up to see his wife, wand in hand.

• “Very well, then,” she said coldly. “Let's begin a new discussion. Why won't you let me do what I want to do?”

• “It's not that—“

• “Yes, it is exactly that. Just because your notion of the perfect housewife doesn't fit with one of my childhood dreams does not entitle you to having things your way.”

• He stared at her mutely, unwilling to engage in a conversation they had had regularly over the past months, but that had never seemed to mean so much to her and that, therefore, had never really meant much to him until now.

• “But why?” he asked, and the incomprehension is his voice was anything but feigned.

• “Well, you're away all day, so you don't notice how boring life can be when you don't have something to do. But when the boys go to Hogwarts I—“

• “Gin, that's so far away,” he pleaded, walking to her and taking her in his arms.

• “I know,” Ginny answered, looking at her hands, “but when something you love is taken away from you quickly, you need to have a purpose, something else—anything else—to keep you going.”

• Being thus reminded that her purpose had once been to ruin his life, he figured if being a Mediwitch was all it took to keep her happy, then he would cede. But not today.

• “How about we talk about this some other time?” he suggested, using the much employed tactic of delaying discussion until it was forgotten. “Today's a bit busy, you know, and—“

• “Of course, yes,” Ginny said, and shook his arms off gently, then smiled at him. There was patience in that smile, but he could tell she had only given in for the time being, to mollify him. Besides, she owed him this—at the very least on this day.

• “Go get dressed,” he said tenderly. “I'll be done in a half hour and I'll help you finish up.”

• “Help me finish get dressed?” she sniggered. “Please… If you step anywhere near me during the time it takes me to get rid of my nightie to the time I have my robes securely fastened, then we both know I won't be getting dressed.”

• “Neither will I, though,” he pointed out, as though this were an indication that there was no problem.

• “Exactly! Now unhand me,”—he had somehow managed to get a hold of her again and, fascinated, was running his hands across her belly—“because we have an appointment to get to.”

• Draco reluctantly let go of her, a frown of uncomprehending annoyance marring his features.

• “Remind me why you had to schedule the meeting with your nurse today?” he asked petulantly.

• “They had no other time available.”

• He debated telling her that people should always have time available when Lady Malfoy needed it, but he knew it would infuriate her and rather liked the idea of having her happy on his birthday. Such a feeling was entirely new to him. He thought he might like it.

• “And why do I have to come?”

• “Because our children are worth more than any birthday present, of course.” She paused, frowning. “Or aren't they?”

• He didn't notice that her question was a tad too childish, a bit too similar to what Pansy would ask, and, immediately going into auto-pilot, tried to step out of the hole he apparently had dug.

• “Of course not, love,” he said quickly, and missed the smile of amused triumph his frantic attempt at peace-keeping elicited. “I'll be ready when you are.”

• “I know you will, which is why I'm trying to get myself ready.”

• She sashayed out of the room, rays of light revealing the shape of her legs beneath the white nightgown. Draco debated calling her back to ascertain just how transparent that piece cloth was, but decided against it and turned to the list of acquisitions his business associates were suggesting.

• Ginny came back to his study half an hour later, wearing sleeveless robes of a dark, forest green. Draco smirked, knowing that—as petty as it may have seemed—she had made an effort to wear those Slytherin colors, and he was distinctively pleased. The silver serpent on her arm, reminiscent of her silver and jade set of rings, were yet another betrayal to her Gryffindor pride; that, in itself, could have constituted his birthday present.

• “Stop gloating and let's go,” Ginny said, self-consciously adjusting her hair and revealing jade earrings.

• “Aren't we fancy today?” Draco said, taking her arm. He did not mind, of course.

• “Aren't we a smart prick today?” she retorted, smiling sweetly.

• “You wouldn't want me any other way.”

• Ginny shrugged.

• “We all have our tragic flaws. You just happen to be mine.”

• They walked to the front steps, where their carriage was awaiting them. Ginny had been using it since the beginning of her seventh month of pregnancy, per the nurse's instructions.

• “So I get to be Lady Malfoy's tragic flaw… Does that give me full license to be evil?” he asked casually.

• “Well, in other circumstances, it would give you full license to be naughty,” she said, readjusting the strap of her robe; Draco blinked and made a very convincing display of self control as he kept his hands to himself. “However, because I don't want to show up at the nurse's appointment looking like I was attacked by an Indian Incubus—“

• “How's Loony Lovegood?” he interrupted, knowing full well where such terminology could come from.

• “The name's Luna, and she's doing well, no thanks to you, might I add, since Neville hasn't left her side after the visit you paid him.”

• “Draco Malfoy, a Cupid in making,” he said, sighing dramatically. “I'm not sure whether I should be flattered or—“

• “Don't be. Your ego takes up enough space as it is.”

• “You're one to talk, Mrs. I'm—so—pregnant—I—can—barely—wa—“

• “Hmmm,” Ginny answered, looking pointedly away. “All thanks to your ego.”

• He looked at her sharply, his eyes narrowing never so slightly and acquiring that metallic quality that Ginny had grown to avoid.

• “Is that what you think?” he asked silkily. “That you're pregnant because of my ego?” He saw from the look of astonishment on her features that she hadn't meant it seriously, much less reproachfully. But it spurred something within him, some blind need to retaliate that Harry Potter and his friends had so easily aroused when he was younger, and it was with almost malignant persistence that he added, “And I who thought it was because of your ego… your desire for revenge…”

• Her eyes flashed with anger, all trace of bewilderment gone.

• “It was a joke, Draco. No need to rub it in. Unless you want me to bring up the reason why I wanted revenge. We could do that, too—talk about how they all died and the house was set to burn, all because—“

• “Enough,” he barked.

• The unseen memories, imagined so many times, as well as the slight tremor of her lower lip, indicative enough of the imminent tears, hurt him more than he would have been willing to admit. Of course, he should have known better than to believe that her returning to him so naturally after a week-end in Clearvaux would mean that all was forgiven—or forgotten.

• He looked at her from the corner of his eye, his lips pressed thin, a vein pulsing along his neck. Ginny managed to contain her tears, and took it upon herself not to fall down into the trap they consistently laid down for each other. She had the grace to look concerned, and then sheepish, although the spikiness of her character was clearly reluctant to back down so easily.

• “I'm sorry,” she said, almost moodily, but softly, in a conciliating manner. “I shouldn't have—“

• “No, you shouldn't have.”

• “You aren't making things any better, you know,” she bit back testily, rubbing her belly for comfort. She shot him a look halfway between grumpiness and repentance. When his demeanor did not change, she gazed out the window sadly, thinking that there were better ways to celebrate a husband's birthday, and that she had clearly messed up this particular one.

• “Look, I said I was sorry,” she added. “What more do you want me to do?”

• Forgive me, he thought, but because saying this would have meant it mattered, and because having things matter was but another reminder of how vulnerable humans are, and he amongst them, he didn't say it. The sunlight, carving his fine features from the shadow of the carriage, made him look hard and cold, like a Rodin sculpture polished to appear smooth, but still radiating the initial power and ruthlessness.

• Ginny felt as though a chill had suddenly crept into the carriage, and she huddled in her corner, goose-bumps creeping along her arms and shoulders, the placid and mute figure of innertorture that was Draco at the moment an unpleasant sight to bear. The smell of warm, nearly dry grass, and dirt moist with the remnants of desiccated streams permeated the air, lightly, softly, like the whisper of the summery landscape unfolding before their eyes.

• Ginny pressed her hand against the window and had the surprised pleasure of feeling the glass vanish, immediately giving way to a gust of air. It was warm and fragrant, as strong and determined as the wind itself, bent on its mission to carry summer from one end of Great Britain to the other. Ginny nearly jumped when she felt Draco's cool fingers picking up her hand and raising it to his lips. He didn't say a word, but the look he gave her would have made her knees buckle had she been standing, so stern and passionate was it—ambivalent but doubly painful, a momentary mirror to the scarred man he had become.

• He took her in his arms and they let the wind blow in their faces. Just before they reached the clinic, he kissed her again, so that by the time a valet came to open the door, Ginny was once again blushing and Draco looked as smug as ever. Megan Jones, from her window across the courtyard, saw them and smiled. She had the distinct impression that their children would grow up in a surprisingly strong and interestingly united family.

• When they had sat in the waiting room long enough for Jones to review Ginevra Malfoy's file, Mediwitch Jones went to greet them. She was unsurprised to notice a faint, pinkish blotch beneath the redhead's jaw-line, one she was trying to hide as casually as possible with her too short curls.

• “Well, Lady Malfoy, I'm afraid this will be one of our final visits,” Jones said once Ginny was seated.

• Draco looked unconcerned, and Ginny beamed with the thrilled expectation that had, many years earlier, made her mother look gloriously resplendent. And if, like her mother, the young woman kept to her promise of having “just two children,” then Jones could tell -from the future mother's happiness and the look of hunger the future father constantly enveloped her with— that they were no closer to remaining a small family than Molly and Arthur Weasley had been.

• The throne Ginny was sitting on seemed made by the very will of the tree that had given its bark rather than by the intent and instruments of a wood-sculptor. Following a tap of Megan Jones' wand, a shudder of life coursed through it, surprising Draco; Ginny had been here often enough to know and appreciate the feel of the chair coming to life, armed with a set of vines that, pressed against the taut skin of Ginny's abdomen, could reveal as much as there was to know about her sons. Jones held a rectangular slab of wood, thick enough to bear elegant carving but not so much that it made it heavy, and perfectly smooth in its center. As soon as the throne's vegetal tentacles had wrapped themselves around Ginny's belly, Jones peered intensely at the wooden slate, nodding to herself and mumbling small words of approval.

• Draco eyed her impassibly, curious but unwilling to betray himself. His wife's obvious calm—eyes closed peacefully and hands completely relaxed—reassured him, so that he composedly accepted the wooden board when Jones handed it over to him. Its carvings had extended and progressed to occupy the entire slate, changing and moving to reveal the intertwined shapes of two babies.

• Draco watched avidly as the wooden image of his sons mirrored their every move, conveying their slow, aquatic movements and the adorable proportions of their tiny bodies. He had never seen them before—for lack of time and ignorance of what it felt like—never experienced the sudden grip of pride, anxiety, and excitement that settles itself instantly within the future parent's mind and body. And while he understood he would never experience, as Ginny did, the powerful and overwhelming occupation of his body by another one, he was now aware of what it meant to be a father, and how regardless of what could happen, that notion would never leave him.

• “They both appear to be in excellent health,” Jones announced. “I wouldn't be surprised if they decided to show up earlier than initially planned—you did say they were conceived around the beginning of November?”

• Draco nodded, avoiding the half-amused smile Ginny shot him. He had tricked her then, and yet she couldn't bring herself to begrudge him that, to resent the marvelous blessing the two boys had felt like once she was past the days of morning sickness.

• “I don't think they'll wait until the end of July. I'm happy to see that you've been eating correctly. How's the exercise?”

• “I know the pool by heart,” Ginny said dutifully, “and Izha has been helping me with the whole gymnastics part. Otherwise, there isn't much I'm allowed to do for fear I might `hurt the babies', so it's a bit frustrating at times.”

• Jones nodded, and proceeded with her interrogation.

• “Does your back hurt?”

• “Yes, sometimes. More and more, in fact, but I suppose it means their getting their fill of food,” Ginny said, and she laughed.

• “Has the potion helped ward off your fatigue?”

• “It has, yes. I'm so happy you recommended it, because I really wouldn't have thought that that potion would help. But it did. We had most of the ingredients in Narcissa's greenhouse or on the grounds, so it was rather easy from there.”

• If Jones was surprised that Ginny had brewed the potion herself, she didn't show it. Draco, on the other hand, did a double take.

• “Why didn't you simply buy it, darling?” he asked casually. “It would have saved you the trouble.”

• “No trouble at all, I assure you,” Ginny replied evenly, “darling. Not to mention… I'm so bad with potions that the first time I tried, Izha and I were laughing all morning long, and the second time we floated throughout the house until evening.” She giggled like a school-girl. “Even your mother was cracking up. She had the house-elves and ghosts close all the windows, just in case.”

• “Purely harmless potions,” Jones added, as to reassure Draco. “The entire family of Merry Mixtures is entirely benign, I assure you.”

• Ginny tried to wipe the bright smile from her face, for she could tell that Draco was not pleased by that revelation. Of course, had he been with them, he would have had a merry time as well—at least until he noticed her repeatedly bumping into the walls as she missed the doorway.

• “So is there anything I can do or take, for my back pains?”

• “I'll add a series of stretches to your morning gymnastics”—Ginny grimaced—“but, if the pain gets too severe, you may purchase,” Jones threw a pointed look at Draco, “a vial or two of this potion and apply it.”

• “Mmh… And maybe you can help me with that, too,” Ginny said coyly, having the pleasure to see a very faint pink tinge appear on her husband's cheekbones. Clearly, although he didn't mind giving her hickies for all the world to see, he was not used to being publically flirted with by his wife.

• “Of course,” Jones said very professionally. “If you don't mind, Lady Malfoy… I would like to take a blood sample, but afterwards you'll be set. I can imagine you do not want to be held too long on this day.”

• Ginny and, to a lesser extent, Draco, looked at Mediwitch Jones oddly.

• “My mother delivered you, Lord Malfoy. I was a Mediwitch at the time. And allow me to say, with all due respect of course, that seeing your father pace like a lion in a cage while your mother gave birth in the most elegant and dignified way I have ever witnessed will remain engraved in my mind.”

• “Don't count on my being too elegant and dignified, Draco,” Ginny said, smiling at the rather caricatured depiction Jones had made of both Lucius and Narcissa.

• “I wouldn't expect you to,” he retorted smartly, and she stuck her tongue out at him as soon as Jones had tactfully tuned her back to retrieve the syringe.

• “So you got to see Draco as a baby,” Ginny carried on as Jones wiped the crook of her arm clean. “I haven't been able to—” she winced when the needle perforated her skin—“get my hands on baby pictures. What was he like?”

• Draco shot the nurse a warning glance, which she ruthlessly ignored.

• “He was one of the most peculiar first-borns I have ever seen,” Jones admitted while she put away Ginny's blood sample. “Most babies cry as soon as they're out. It's a reflex, it's simply the first thing they do. But your husband, blind, disoriented, and utterly toothless as he was, smiled. His mother saw this, and beamed, but when she took you in her arms,” Jones carried on, turning to Draco, “there was sadness on her face. I think what she said was, `Oh darling… This trusting innocence of yours will soon be gone', and she held you tighter.”

• “Funny,” Ginny said softly, for she could see the puzzlement on Draco's features, “that's what my mum said to me when I left for Hogwarts. I suppose both of them were right.”

• “Mothers tend to be right,” Jones affirmed and tapped her wand on the chair. The tentacles coiled and folded themselves back into the wood, allowing Ginny to stand up. “So. Exercise. Eat well. Use the potions if you need them. Otherwise, I have nothing left to do but wish Lord Malfoy a happy birthday.”

• Draco nodded politely, still resentful of the Mediwitch's revelations regarding the day of his birth. It was a private thing that, he felt, she should not have shared, even with him; the sadness, the resignation in his mother's words sounded so unlike the image of her he had that he wondered what she had meant then.

• “And I suppose Grainne will take care of scheduling your next appointment?” Jones wondered.

• “As usual, yes,” Ginny answered. “Thank you very much.”

• Gingerly, she made to step down from the seat and Draco was swift enough to help her. While she did not need his hand to walk down the step, she was glad for the intention and the feel of his hold, strong and effortless as everything he did.

• Jones watched them stroll away, smiling knowingly. She was no stranger to the disagreements that had once existed between Weasleys and Malfoys, no stranger either to the times when animosity—as much as desire—had reigned in their couple. As things stood, though, she could tell that something had changed, hopefully for the best.

• “You didn't tell me your back was hurting,” Draco said after he had ushered Ginny into the carriage.

• “I didn't want to trouble you,” she said absently, flattening the folds of her robe.

• He took her by the shoulders and forced her to look at him.

• “Ginevra. Listen to me once and for all, because I won't say this often. I care. I care about you. I care about our sons. Ergo, I care about your back, aching articulations, swollen breasts—“

• “Mmh, I bet you do,” she replied, smiling mischievously, but pleased by his admission all the same. “I bet you wish I had a cream for that, too.”

• “I could brew one, if you want,” he said hopefully. “You know, to alleviate the—” she had taken one of his hands and placed it on her breast, where it fit perfectly “—pain,” he hissed.

• She smirked at the change in his voice, and he saw it. Allowing his other hand to find a place on the small of her back, he pulled her closer to him.

• “I see you've not only learned manipulation and deception from us Malfoys, but also the facial expressions that go with it.”

• “Who, me?” Ginny asked, looking like Eve would have had she tried to deny her taking a bite into the forbidden fruit.

• “Yes, you,” he confirmed, leaning in to nuzzle her neck, stroking her with wary tenderness, his hands gentle yet uncompromising.

• They spent the rest of the ride home speaking softly and holding each other, surrounded by the supple comfort meaningless words and pointless caresses can create. And as only timid teenagers or a tranquil old couple do, they shared, in the twenty minutes that the trip lasted, the illusion of timeless affection that characterizes lovers sharing more than eternity or perfection, sharing nothing more than their humanity.

• They had no sooner walked into the cool shade of the Manor than Ginny exclaimed, “Oh, I almost forgot! Just… wait here!”

• And with that she walked quickly into the salon. Draco was wondering where the smell of burnt food was coming from when he heard Ginny scream with terror. He rushed after her, wand in hand, his months of training during the war seeping into him with ease as he stalked in the shadow. When he burst into the salon, ready to capture, torture, and kill without hesitation to protect Ginevra, it was to find her holding a distinctively burned cake, topped with shimmering candles. Around her stood Blaise, beaming unselfconsciously—a habit he had inherited from Shehzin--, who stood immediately beside him, smiling that smile of hers that seemed like it could illuminate even the depths of Tartarus.

• There was a faint look of surprised disgust on Draco's handsome features as he took in the assembly of his friends: the Goyles and Notts were there, earliest of his school comrades to have found solace—if not happiness—in matrimony; Pansy Parkinson, Vivian Silverspring, Cecilia Lestrange, and Serafina Zabini, Graces of stunning beauty whose tongues were sharper than a dagger, stood together, adoringly gazed at by Vincent Crabbe. Draco hadn't planned on seeing, on his mother's right hand side, his aunt Proserpina and her son Cyrus. While the presence of the former filled him with serenity, for she bore a striking resemblance to his father, that of the latter left him on his guard. But Cyrus smiled unabashedly, as though he had never tried to lay hands on Ginny or imagined nights of guilty pleasure spent in her company, and hugged Draco warmly when the young man reached his level.

• “Happy birthday, cousin,” he said, and Ginny was once again stunned by the innocence and vitality of his features. His smile was anything if not winsome, the very picture of the smile kings and presidents are raised to master.

• “Thank you,” Draco answered without missing a beat, his demeanor polite and bordering on friendly, but his eyes colder than the snow storms that enshroud villages for weeks on end.

• “And Ginevra, how lovely it is to see you again,” Cyrus went on. “It has been too long.”

• Whether his smile became a hint too tense or a feral glint shot through his eyes, Ginny couldn't tell, but she did sense the predatory nature behind the mask, and felt Draco's arm closing protectively around her.

• “There is no such thing as `too' long,” came Izha's composed, neutral voice. “When you wish to see friends, you do; when you don't, you don't. That is all there is to it.”

• Cyrus shot her an odd look, filled with respect and disdain that barely filtered through his debonair façade. The smile she gave him was, in turn, dismissive and tinged with distaste. Ginny had never seen such a negative expression on her friend's face, except when she evoked her father or witnessed the damage he had wrought. It made Izha seem more human, this half-concealed scorn, for her compassionate calm and perpetual serenity were oddly out of place in a country just emerging from war.

• “Indeed,” Proserpina said non-committaly. “Izha, we've been missing your wisdom at my house. Unfortunately, Cyrus no long has anyone to stand up to him and takes full advantage of the fact.” She kissed Izha gently, mustering as much affection for her niece as she then displayed for Draco. “Happy birthday, dear,” she said, running a white hand across his cheek and kissing him on the forehead.

• The elder woman's lips felt cold, and on the verge of being dry, as though no lip balm or moisturizer could ever restore the warmth to these lips that suffered either from not having kissed enough, or from not having been kissed in return. Those were the thoughts that came to Ginny's mind when, having greeted her husband, Proserpina turned to her. In the depths of her icy eyes, no bluer than Lucius' had been, loomed the pitiless beauty of an existence gone unfilled, of joys turned away by prejudice, of a marriage made sterile by both parties' disinterest.

• “How'd you like the surprise, mate?” Blaise asked, grinning boyishly and hugging his best friend roughly.

• “It's hard to say,” Draco said ambiguously. “After all, it's… a surprise,” he added, giving his mother an inquisitive glance.

• “I assure you I had no part in it,” Narcissa said, mild disapproval visible in the slight, downward curve of her mouth. It reminded Ginny of the Narcissa Malfoy she had seen at the Quidditch World Cup years before.

• “So, how does it feel to be twenty-one, Draco?” Shehzin asked, and kissed Draco soundly on both cheeks. She appeared, as usual, radiant. The caramel brown of her robe seemed to merge with her skin. Cyrus was not one to let that go by unnoticed, and gave her curves an appreciative look.

• “Draco,” Blaise said, his arm finding its way around Shehzin's waist, “I do not believe I have been introduced to everyone here.”

• Ginny stared at him, surprised at the change in his voice. His posture had straightened and the planes of his face suddenly looked manlier than she could remember; the beauty he had inherited from his mother became formidable, magnified as it was by his impeccable manners and perfectly controlled anger. Draco stared at his friend, amused by his reaction and almost relieved that they both felt threatened by this handsome young man whom so many others would have deemed harmless. He was once again reminded, and Ginny finally understood why, Blaise was Draco's best friend.

• “Blaise, this is Cyrus, my cousin. Cyrus, Blaise—my best friend,” Draco enounced as they shook hands.

• “This is Shehzin, my wife,” Blaise added, giving Cyrus such a withering look that the younger man hesitated to kiss Shehzin's hand. Her dislike for him, made obvious by the instant disappearance of her smile, convinced him not to dare touch the dark-haired woman.

• “And I'm Serafina.”

• Blaise turned to see his sister smiling enticingly at Cyrus. Had he not still been incensed by the other man's earlier conduct toward both his wife and Ginevra, he would perhaps have taken the time to roll his eyes and drag his sister away to lecture her about the risks of hanging about dangerous men. As it was, though, he figured that not only was she old enough to take care of herself, but she had also grown up in close companionship with Draco and himself; where dangerous men were concerned, she had probably had the best education a woman could have. Cyrus, meanwhile, in a graceful, fluid gesture, had taken hold of Serafina's hand and kissed it languorously. Ginny and Draco, seeing the sparks fly between both disreputable individuals, shared a look. Ginny shrugged. Draco nodded. Serafina and Cyrus, quickly absorbed in a conversation whose tone went diminishing, moved away.

• “I suppose that takes care of that,” Izha said.

• Her immutable smile had returned. She turned to Narcissa as if expecting her to say something, and Narcissa complied.

• “While this surprise get-together—“

• “Party,” Blaise mumbled, and tried to cover it up with a cough when the blond woman raised an eyebrow dismissively.

• “—was not my idea for an ideal birthday celebration, Proserpina and I will have some matters to discuss with you later on.”

• “And Ginevra,” Draco said calmly.

• “Yes, and Ginevra,” Narcissa acknowledged, a bit surprised by the interruption but pleased that he had stepped up for his wife—something Lucius, regardless of the love he bore her, had not done unless her safety or reputation were in danger.

• Shehzin caught the rapid hand squeeze Ginny gave Draco and her smile further brightened.

• “Shall we get some cake?” Blaise asked, rubbing his hands eagerly in an almost childish manner.

• Ginny eyed him subtly, recognizing the enthusiastic, avid young man Blaise became whenever he was around Draco and Shehzin. The ease with which he had become the contemptuous bastard she had known at Hogwarts was appalling; the fact that both he and Draco could change in an instant, whether from their education at home or in Slytherin, stunned her into contemplative silence. And as Blaise dragged Shehzin toward the impressive cake, upon which the neglected candles still blazed, Draco leaned to whisper in Ginny's ear.

• “This surprise wouldn't happen to be one of your ideas, would it?” he asked, suspicion and mirth battling for the key note in his voice.

• “Mhh? No, not at all. What makes you think it could be?”

• Narcissa and Proserpina were walking away, absorbed in a conversation the depths of which only they could conceive.

• “I seem to recall the Ravenclaws mentioning a tremendous surprise party thrown by a little Gryffindor for one of their house members…”

• “Well, fancy that…” Ginny mused, and turned to face him, smiling innocently. “Who knew Neville was so inventive?”

• The corner of Draco's lips twitched as he fought to contain a smile.

• “I sincerely doubt Longbottom is to blame for this.”

• Ginny's face fell, a hint of uncertainty marring her features.

• “You really don't like it?”

• “Oh, I suppose it's alright,” he said airily, bringing her so close to him that their foreheads touched. “It's just that, where surprises are concerned, the one that would make me happiest entails—“

• He finished his sentence in a very low and sensuous voice, one whose tone and insinuations had a bright blush creeping on Ginny's cheeks within seconds.

• “Well, uh,” Ginny giggled, and then, realizing the absurdity of the situation, as Draco was merely retaliating for her earlier flirtation in front of Megan Jones, she lasciviously added, “I'm sure we could make the proper arrangements.”

• His eyes darkened as she knew —and hoped— they would, and he was already pulling her toward the door when they were stopped by four feet of timid boyishness.

• “Happy birthday, Uncle Draco,” Leo said hesitantly, as though feeling that he shouldn't have stopped these two grown-ups on their way to the bedroom, but having been unable to refrain from doing so.

• “Uncle Dr—” Draco repeated, surprised, giving Ginny an inquisitive glance.

• She shrugged and ruffled the boy's dark hair affectionately.

• “Well, you are his uncle. And your name is Draco, right? Or is old age taking its toll on you already?” she went on, laughing.

• An uncertain smile appeared on Leo's lips as he looked at them alternately. Draco pinched Ginny's arm lightly.

• “Be quiet, woman,” he said, undaunted by the exaggerated yelp his teasing elicited.

• “See how he treats his wife?” Ginny asked, taking Leo as witness. “I'm not sure he deserves a birthday present. What do you think, Leo? Hopefully you'll be much nicer to your girlfriend when—“

• “Now, now, duck, don't go about ruining years of education on how to properly treating ladies with your lessons,” Draco said, smirking, as he pushed an errant strand of red hair back behind her ear.

• Draco wished he had not spoken when he saw a similar look of stupefaction on both Ginny and Leo's faces. Expecting a thinly-veiled rebuke and allusions to the lamentable source of Bellatrix Lestrange's son's education from his wife, he was unsure of the young boy's reaction; either way, a sense of dread crept upon him as a hawk diving for the kill.

• “You just called me—” Ginny began.

• “Duck,” Leo finished as if he had been holding his breath. “Like… a duck…”

• “Draco Malfoy…”

• “A pet name…”

• Ginny and Leo exchanged a glance filled with understanding as Draco eyed them warily, mildly displeased that such an innocuous choice of words could seem so appalling. Then the two of them smiled and it was as though a veil had been lifted, another bridge crossed, another gap mended.

• “Well, I'll just go get some pumpkin juice,” Leo said very seriously, although a mischievous sparkle danced in his eyes.

• Ginny, not for the first time that day, wrapped her arms around Draco's neck and, a self-satisfied smile curling her lips, she murmured throatily, “Will wonders ever cease…?”

• “Quite a devoted admirer you've got yourself there, Ginevra Malfoy,” Draco replied, loving the way her full belly felt despite the space it introduced between them.

• “Why of course… Why else would you have married me?” she retorted cheekily.

• “I meant Leo,” he snickered, “but why else indeed….”

• Their lips met tenderly, her hands finding their way into his hair as his ran down the small of her back. He leaned in to deepen the kiss, in a display of affection that was shocking not so much because of its intensity but because this was Draco Malfoy, throwing caution and decency to the wind in exchange for a blissful exchange with his wife.

• “I suppose I should be grateful to your mother for inviting only him and Cecilia,” Ginny said when he paused to look at her. Their foreheads rested against each other.

• “Actually, Bellatrix hasn't been feeling very well, lately,” Draco explained. If he saw the glimmer of triumph that shot through Ginny's eyes, he did not remark upon it or question her. “She and Rodolphus are on vacation in Switzerland.”

• Draco did not consciously avoid referring to them as “uncle” and “aunt”, but, in circumstances where he would have been given the chance to do so, he would quickly have realized that he had first come to call them family out of politeness, then of fear, and finally convenience; continuing to do so, in view of Ginevra's repugnance and his own aversion for them, would have been pure unconsciousness.

• “Well I sure hope they don't—” Ginny began, incapable as always to hold her tongue.

• “Come back? Yes, I know,” he interrupted her softly. “Please do not say this where Mother can hear you.”

• “I'm afraid Ginevra is quite entitled to saying whatever she wishes about my sister, Draco,” Narcissa's voice, uncharacteristically grave, said. “That is, not about Andromeda. I doubt Nymphadora would forgive you, and anything you could say about her without having known her would fall dreadfully short of the woman she was. After all, even we, who knew her well, failed to understand the strength of her character.”

• The young couple turned to find Lucius' widow standing there, holding a glass of champagne. For the first time, Draco noticed the lines of fatigue on her face. While elegantly faint for a woman her age, they were nonetheless present, as ineffective parentheses around a past that would not remain muted. Ginny looked mildly uncomfortable , and yet she understood in some indescribable way that this authorization to exact revenge from Bellatrix was, for a woman whose eldest sister had once been everything to her, as close to an apology as the redhead would ever get.

• “I am actually here to remind you,” Narcissa went on, frowning, “that you must blow the candles on your cake, or Blaise will do it for you… and perhaps even eat them, along with a monstrous slice of the cake he has been coveting since Ginevra baked it.”

• “You baked the cake yourself?” Draco snapped, annoyed but not surprised to learn that she could not keep away from the kitchen.

• “Well, I was going to have Blaise make the icing—he insisted upon it!—but you must have smelled the result of that when you walked in.”

• “Mh,” Narcissa concurred. “Apparently, despite rather obvious hints, the fact that one does not actually heat the icing completely eluded the poor boy.”

• “Poor I may be,” Blaise roared from the other side of the room, “but I certainly will not be hungry unless the birthday boy,”—both Draco and Narcissa cringed— “comes over here and starts cutting the damn—“

• He was interrupted by Shehzin's hand, tactfully pressed against his lips as she finished the sentence.

• “Cake,” she said simply, but loud enough for everyone to hear. “Watch your mouth, there are children around,” she added much lower, glaring at Blaise. Somehow that did not seem to dampen his spirits, as only the sight of Draco finally making his way over to the cake succeeding in chasing away the prospect of ruthlessly claiming the chocolate cake for himself.

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30. Malfoy Manor

• Malfoy Manor, England.

June 5^th , 2001

“Do you have any idea what they want to talk to you about?”

“No,” Draco answered laconically.

“Oh.”

Ginny and Draco stood in front of the doors to Narcissa's study. Ginny had never realized that the woman even had one, for she had assumed that, not needing it, she would do without it. That deduction, however sound it may have seemed, had one major flaw, in the sense that this was indeed Narcissa Black Malfoy's office: even what she didn't want, she had; what she couldn't have, she wanted; and what she wanted, she would inexorably obtain. So there were Ginny and Draco, waiting in front of Narcissa's office.

“You have chocolate on your mouth,” Draco pointed out.

Ginny frantically tried to rub it off, unknowingly avoiding the chocolate entirely. With one careful gesture, Draco erased the smear, then licked his fingers slowly. She watched him, mesmerized, like a mouse observing the cat about to pounce on it and almost willing to endure it for the thrill. As if on cue, at the precise moment where he was indeed about to pounce on her, the door opened.

They stepped inside, knowing that the mere opening of the doors was invitation enough, for neither Narcissa nor Proserpina would have wasted their breath calling. Draco, who had not stepped in this room since he had been old enough to dismiss his mother's doings as women's stuff, was surprised to find it extremely similar to his father's office. In fact, as he took in the details that surrounded him—the omnipresent blue and gold, the dark woods and carpeted floor, the ancient books and the crystal globe—he realized that this was exactly his father's study.

“It became that way soon after he passed away,” Narcissa said knowingly, shrugging, in answer to Draco's unspoken question. “It must have known I would not be happy otherwise.”

Ginny wondered what the elder woman meant when she said “it”.

“Which brings us to the reason why we are here,” Proserpina explained, indicating that they take a seat. “You see, while the legal age for adulthood is seventeen, a more ancient code has long deemed it to be twenty-one.”

Ginny felt that this would be a talk the likes of she had already heard before the wedding ceremony, and braced herself for some pep talk about magic, sacrifices, and, naturally, blood.

“The Manor hasn't always been as you see it today,” Proserpina went on. “In fact, when I was a child, it was a bit bigger, although not quite as sumptuous, as it is today. Mind you, Father was a frugal man, and there were two children then…”

“The point is,” Narcissa interrupted, aware of the incomprehension pooling in Ginny's eyes, “that the day the Malfoy heir turns twenty-one, and unless his father is still—“ her voice hitched and for a second she looked lost, mute, carved out of the silence that separates the living lover from the dead one.

“—and unless his father is still able to rule, the entire Malfoy property becomes his, body and soul. And while the grounds usually remain the same, because there is nothing as powerful and universal than nature's magic, the Manor will change to fit its new master.”

There was a pause during which Draco remained impassible, Ginny fought hard not to imagine the Manor's furniture undergoing a radical make-over, and both Narcissa and Proserpina eyed the young Malfoy couple wordlessly.

“How does that happen?” Draco asked at last, solemnly.

Proserpina shrugged elegantly.

“You and Ginevra will have to live elsewhere for three days and three nights, beginning tonight at midnight. During that time, the change will take place, although having never witnessed the process, I am unsure of how that will happen.”

“I have made arrangements for you to stay in a townhouse on Lancelot Lane. It has been in my family for generations, and was always a favorite of mine.”

“What about you, Mother?”

Narcissa shot her son a knowing glance, one that was filled with pride at who he had become and sadness that she had to do what she had decided to.

“I will go live in our house in Delphi,” she said neutrally.

What pushed Ginny to ask the next question was more of an instinct than anything else, as though she had felt there was more to Narcissa's seriousness than mere resolve.

“For how long?” she asked, looking straight at her mother-in-law.

“Why, until I die, I suppose,” Narcissa said grimly, although a wan smile crossed her lips.

She brought a cup of tea to her mouth and sipped daintily, as though daring her interlocutors to challenge the deliberate mournfulness of her words. It wasn't self-pity so much as well-informed sarcasm, the kind that delights in making important happenings seem absurd. Proserpina cast her a non-committal look, remembering all too well how her and Lucius' mother had erred through the Manor, miserable and silent as a ghost, after their father's death; while she could not imagine a woman as strong as Narcissa slowly withering away unless afflicted with a deadly illness, she had no difficulty understanding her desire to get away from the young couple. How could she even have fathomed the ties of death and blame tying her sister-in-law to Ginevra, have grasped the precariousness of the young woman and Draco's relationship, have appreciated the depth of Narcissa's sacrifice to give the new Malfoy couple the slightest of chances?

Ginny could not, for all the gold in the world, have said how this revelation made her feel. Knowing Bellatrix' exact hand in her family's death had made Narcissa's willingly blind complacence during the war all the more difficult to bear, and she could not find it within her, for the sake of Draco or of her future children, to forgive the woman. Memories of how the older woman had taken to her, initiated her to the complexities of life in aristocracy, scolded Draco when he flaunted other women in her face to make her jealous, were promptly disrupted by the notion that it was people like Narcissa, her husband, her family, and other equally prejudiced and careless wizards, who had allowed for both of Voldemort's rises and the subsequent closing off of the Wizarding community. Between the two women, something had been broken long before either became aware of it. Ginny found herself unwilling to move past it, devoted as she was to forgiving Draco; there was only so much clemency she could muster.

Draco frowned, opening his mouth to protest or enquire, but Narcissa raised her hand slightly. His initial shock well disguised, he shot her an inquisitive glare. His mother saw well past the façade. She sensed the resentment at being abandoned by a second parent, knowing full well that it was not so much that he needed her presence as the fact that he wanted it, for stability and continuity. However, for having been pushed around by Bellatrix as a little girl and having given in to social pressure all throughout her life, she had learned to be ruthless.

“Widows do not make for good mothers-in-law,” she said calmly, exchanging a look of understanding with Proserpina. “I will come and visit once in a while, and so will you.”

“Don't worry, Draco,” Proserpina added, although no one in the room could have imagined he was truly worried. “She and I have already made plans to spend a week in Islamabad and two in Bombay.”

He lifted a single eyebrow.

“Just the two of us,” Narcissa specified.

Draco nodded, as though giving his consent, all too aware that his mother would have done as she wished regardless of his word. It did not happen often, but when a particular idea caught her fancy, it was impossible to make her let go of it. Ginny looked out the window, absently rubbing her belly, oddly relieved by the thought that she and Draco would leave the Manor for a few days and that she would no longer have to deal with Narcissa's cold stares. There was enough bad blood between these equally strong women to turn the usual mother and daughter-in-law angst into genocide, so that time apart -and permanent arrangements to maintain that indefinitely—would be best for every individual in the household.

“Along with the Manor and its estates, you will inherit the fortune of the Malfoys, which is rightfully yours, and half that of the Blacks.”

“How do you feel about that?” Ginny asked Proserpina, who hadn't so much as raised an eyebrow. “And how will you live?” she said, turning to Narcissa. Her voice was surprisingly lacking in care for the amount of genuine curiosity it held.

“I assure you my wedding contract affords me more than I could ever want from both the Malfoy and Black families,” Narcissa retorted sharply, the hint of a smile indicating how preposterous was the possibility of it being any other way.

“As for I, it has always been clear that I would not see so much as a Knut from the Malfoy inheritance,” Proserpina said without a trace of resentment. “I wasn't so lucky as Narcissa was in having two female siblings. In fact, had Castor survived—“

“But he didn't,” Narcissa interrupted sharply, “and so Bellatrix and I got to share our parents' possessions when it was clear that Andromeda was not worthy of partaking in the succession. The family's lawyers, Luke Herrlington and Sinead O'Hara, will get in contact with you, Draco, to make sure everything is in order in terms of paperwork. This might take a day or two, but you will have to wait before the Manor acknowledges you as its owner before the rest of the legal enactments come into play.” She waved her hand dismissively. “I'm sure Luke and Sinead will do a much better job of explaining this than I could, but as current Lady of the Manor, it was my role to inform you.”

Draco merely nodded.

“Now rise,” Narcissa told him. Her gaze was so filled with tenderness that for a moment she looked like the care-free mother of a little blond toddler she had once been. “You too,” she added, tilting her chin toward Ginny.

They both did as they were told. Narcissa put her right hand on her son's shoulder and the left one on Ginny's shoulder.

• “Rows of chairs in restless lines;

• air still echoes poet's rhymes,

• not yet flown from emptied halls;

• footsteps falter, crumble, crawl.

• Eerie voices linger, last;

final choices, feared, now lost.

In three nights you will return

Only then shall your hearth burn.

Yours the cellars, yours the stairs,

Yours the soil, water, and airs.

Blessing from each ancestor

On new father and new mother.” (1)

From the ceilings and the floors to the heavy wooden beams and cracks between the stones, from the window glass panes and hung mirrors to the heavy-set armchairs and footstools, in short from every object in the household including the household itself, there rose a golden, shimmering light. It flowed freely and towards the Malfoy couple, like a stream but also of a distinctively particulate nature, so that when Ginny ran her hand through it flew about like dust. Regardless, it progressed to envelop Draco and Ginny, covering their limbs in shining matter as if to take an imprint of their very beings. (2) It shone gold and yellow for a bit then seeped through individuals and objects indiscriminately, vanishing as subtly as it had appeared.

“You will leave the Manor by midnight at the latest. Now go and enjoy yourself,” Narcissa went on, speaking solely to Draco now that the ceremony no longer required her to address Ginny. “I doubt Blaise will have left much of that case for you to enjoy.”

“I doubt Shehzin or Izha would have allowed him to touch the second cake, though,” Proserpina pointed out.

“There's a second cake?” Draco asked

“What can I say… Your wife has a sweet tooth,” Proserpina said, smiling a bit. “She and Izha seemed to think you wouldn't mind a vacherin (3) in addition to the more traditional chocolate cake.”

“We'll be right with you,” Narcissa finished, motioning for them to leave. Her skin seemed paler than usual and her features were drawn, but a new kind of peace graced her with face respite.

Ginny nodded and bowed ever so slightly, unsure of how to part with the elderly women. She retreated slowly towards the door, allowing Draco a few seconds with his mother. As impulsively as his mother would allow, the blond wizard rose from his seat and through himself in his Narcissa's arms. Surprised, she returned the hug, caressing his hair as she had when he was a toddler with silver hair and tiny baby teeth. They knew they would see each other again, but for the second time in his life since Voldemort had made him face the consequences of his actions, Draco felt that he was alone. Legally an adult since the age of seventeen, emotionally an adult since the second rise of the Dark Lord, the young man was about to enter another era of his life, one in which his mother could not take part. Slowly, he remembered his wife, and the children growing in her womb, and his mother's abandonment did not feel as heavy. Yet he held on, wishing for the maternal comfort to last but a bit longer.

Gently, Narcissa pushed him back. She placed a kiss on his forehead, her eyes brimming with tears but filled also with hope.

“Go now, my son. Your family will need you.”

“Yes, Mother,” he said obediently, for obedient he had always been and such he would remain.

He quickly embraced his aunt and marched out of the room with as much decorum as he could muster, ready at last to become Lord of the Manor. He took Ginny's arm and led her back to where their friends awaited them, gnawing away at his wife's mind-blowing cakes. They had the satisfaction of noting that both Serafina and Cyrus had left, presumably together. With the couple gone and Pansy behaving herself, only Blaise remained to break his usual havoc on Draco's birthday. He took no heed of Shehzin's insistent warnings, and was indeed responsible for the fun and chaos that ensued.

Several hours later, Draco emerged in the bedroom looking positively thrilled. Though his hair still smelled of the powdered sugar Blaise had accidentally dropped on him, he could not be separated from his ecstatic smile. He found Ginny lying on the settee, eyes closed, her face twisted in an easy grimace. Draco's face fell and he went to kneel by the settee.

“Gin, what's wrong?”

She opened her eyes, startled, and he could see that her lashes were thick with tears though she had successfully prevented them from staining her cheeks. She gave him a sad smile.

“I'm fine.”

“Freckles, please,” he snapped tiredly, using her nickname for the first time since he had learned of her real identity. “You can tell me.”

Ginny thought back to Izha's suggestions and Shehzin's concerns regarding the communication in their relationship. Now that she had agreed to try and make things work with her husband, she had to play along with her own decision, even if that involved trusting him with her weaknesses.

“My back hurts horribly,” she admitted, hoping that her voice wouldn't sound too whiny.

“Didn't the Mediwitch give you a potion for that?”

His brow was furrowed in confusion, but she could tell there was also a hint of anger that predicted nothing good for her personal Healer.

“She did, she did,” Ginny said immediately. “But, I… I have this weird thing about potions and… Well, unless the pain is really unbearable, I'd rather not use too many spells or potions that could temper with the boys.”

“I'm sure they're absolutely safe. You really should -“

“Please,” she said, putting an arm a hand on his shoulder and wincing as another stab of pain shot through her. “Just let me deal with it as I please.”

Draco bit back a groan but decided to indulge her, knowing he would pointlessly upset her if he tried to do things his way. Regardless, seeing her in so much pain hurt him so much it surprised him, and his incapacity to help made it even worse. After a while, Ginny's face grew more peaceful and her fingers, which had been clenched around Draco's, relaxed. She opened her eyes again and looked at him, then gave him a small smile.

“I'm feeling better,” she said softly.

He kissed her temple as though she were made of crystal.

“Tell you what. Since you took such good care of me on the blessed day that saw my birth, how about I reward you with a long, hot bath?”

A blissful smile replaced the ghost of the former on Ginny's face.

“That would be amazing.”

Draco called Grainne, and when the ghost servant had appeared he gave her orders to prepare a bath for Lady Malfoy. He ignored his wife's, “And here I thought you were going to take care of it all on your own,” and helped her sit up.

“Come with me, then,” he said, and before she had the chance to do anything about it, scooped her up into his arms.

Draco most definitely took advantage of the situation to burry his face in her neck, all the while making sure she was not too riled up by their unorthodox trip to the bathroom. She hummed with pleasure under his touch. The water was rapidly filling the large tub when they entered the bathroom. A thick foam formed on the surface of the water as if imbued with a will of its own. It smelled odd and oriental, a mixture of scents that Ginny could not quite place but that immediately soothed the remnants of her backache.

“The House Elves added medicinal plants for backache,” Draco explained as he set her down.

Slowly, with care and infinite tenderness, Draco divested her of her robes. He unbuttoned the ample, periwinkle blue robe she insisted on wearing because she claimed it kept her mood as bright as a summer sky. They pooled at her feet like water when he dropped them to the floor.

“My very own Venus,” he muttered as he took in her white skin and the constellations of orange freckles that had become his universe.

Ginny smiled calmly and unclasped her bra, releasing her full breasts. She grew tired of their weight frequently, but the look of hunger Draco shot her then made her momentarily forget the ills of pregnancy. He kneeled, taking her panties down with him and letting her step out of them. They stood there, he still clad in his robes, she naked and unashamed like the day she was born. Draco placed his hands on her distended abdomen, fascinated as always by the incredible roundness that harbored his children. Sure enough, several seconds later, he felt a small bump under his fingers. Ginny winced as one of their sons made his presence known, though that tiny movement could and would always make her heart stop in wonder and gratitude.

Helped by her husband, she sat down in a chair by the side of the tub. It was made of the same material as the tub and seemed to have been carved out of the same slab, as though the pool had been excavated and the builder had forgotten to remove the chair. However, when Ginny had been installed in it, the chair slowly started melting into the pool, taking the young woman along with it. Gradually, it eased her into the water, adapting to the shape of her body so that she would not suffer from the usual gymnastics involved in stepping into one's bath. Soon she was almost fully immersed in the hot water. Warm currents ran across the tub, gently massaging her aching limbs. Ginny closed her eyes in delight and dipped her head in the water. She emerged with a crown of foam.

“Aren't you going to join me?” she asked, sending a meaningful look Draco's way.

She nearly laughed at the plainly happy smile that graced his features. She did not catch it often, this pure, unadorned smile, but whenever she did it felt like a victory over their past. She knew she and her oversized womb had the power of eliciting such smiles from Draco, but, in her half-hearted attempt at punishing him for his treatment of her, she had been cautious not to give him the reasons to grin like that. But with news of Narcissa leaving the Manor, with life catching up with her and her love for Draco growing with each passing day, Ginny found it increasingly difficult to maintain the charade. At last, it seemed, the Malfoy patience had vanquished the Weasley temper.

“Do you want me to?” he asked saucily, his hands already busy removing his robes.

“I wouldn't mind,” she said with all the neutrality she could muster.

She heard the water part around him as he slid into the tub, his movements as graceful and controlled as those of a predator. He swam toward her and pulled her against him, holding her back against his chest.

“You're so light in the water,” he murmured against her ear as he leaned back and let her rest on him.

Ginny slapped his thigh as hard as the water would allow.

“I'm always light,” she snapped.

“You obviously weren't carrying yourself from the room to the bedroom, my dear.”

She tried to turn and retaliate appropriately, physical blows being the only proper response in her opinion, but he held her tight. He took great care not to squeeze too hard, a fact of which she was entirely conscious and for which she was grateful, though she would have preferred being able to move.

“Malfoy,” she growled.

“Do you realize there are four of us, in this room, who could respond to this appellation?”

“Well, for the sake of at least two of them, if not all four, I suggest you refrain from calling one of them heavy.”

He laughed softly, his breath sending shivers down her spine. Instinctively, she arched into his embrace. He responded immediately as his hands found their natural place on her hips. Ginny very nearly purred and wrapped her hand in his hair.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Draco asked reluctantly.

“Isn't it always?”

Her tone was clearly annoyed.

“No, I mean… You know, for the twins?”

“That didn't seem to trouble you a few days ago,” Ginny pointed out with very limited patience.

Draco acknowledged the fact and, without further preoccupations, resumed what he was doing.

Later, he helped Ginny come out of the tub and dried her entirely. He took her back to the bedroom where, propped with enough cushions to hold a monumental pillow fight, she rested from their earlier activities. Meanwhile, Draco thought back to the discussion with his mother.

“What's wrong?” Ginny asked at last, after several glances at her husband had shown him to be deep in thought.

“We have to leave the Manor tonight.”

“Yes, and?”

“I had been thinking of taking a small vacation for a while, and this seems like the perfect occasion to do that. How would you feel about taking the week off?”

Ginny laughed and kept playing with his hair.

“Taking the week off from what? All I do is practice breathing techniques, stretch, swim, and visit the MCCD. Are you sure you could handle taking the week off?” she asked, smirking.

“With you, anything is possible,” Draco said sententiously.

Ginny pulled a handful of hair harder than was necessary.

“Witch,” Draco rumbled.

“Language, Draco,” Ginny chided.

“Well, you are…”

“Don't play smart.”

They lay in silence, Draco feeling increasingly calm as his wife toyed with his blond locks.

“I would love to take a vacation,” Ginny said at last. “Where's this Lancelot lane your mother mentioned?”

“Oh, we wouldn't be heading there,” Draco chuckled dismissively. “I was actually thinking of taking you to the Nile.”

“The Nile.”

“Yes, the Nile. Egypt, pyramids, lots of sand, crocodiles.”

“I've been to Egypt, you twit. I know what that Nile is.”

“Language, Ginny.”

“Silence, you. We visited Bill in Luxor a few years ago. The Karnak complex there has impressive treasures that have yet to be unearthed by Muggles, and he was in charge of breaking some of the spells there.”

“Would you like to go, then?” Draco said after a somewhat awkward pause. He feared that the mention of Bill and memories of Egypt might make the trip tense, and he had no desire to re-ignite their never-ending strife after the moments of reprieve they enjoyed increasingly often.

“Of course! There's so much to see and we only got to visit the Valley of the Kings. Pretty interesting, but there were so many Muggles there that we had a hard time keeping dad in check. Not to mention I fried like none other and had to apply a healing potion for days after we returned.”

“Charming.”

“I assure you, it was anything but,” Ginny replied somewhat bitterly.

“If I promise to keep you out of the sun, will you come with me to Egypt?”

“Keep me out of the sun? Are you crazy? I'd have to stay cooped up all day long!”

Draco did not say anything, thinking of the many summers he had spent, in Greece, Italy, or Spain, waiting for the sun to reach the end of its course before daring to come out. Neither Lucius nor Narcissa would have had it any other way.

“I'm sure we can find a way around this minor detail,” he said at last.

“Minor? The sun in Egypt? Their main deity was Amon the sun god, Draco.” She sighed deeply. “Maybe Hermione will—“

She stopped herself. Draco waited.

“I'm sure Shehzin knows a lot of spells against sunburns,” Ginny amended. “I mean, if they didn't have them, they'd burn to ashes in Bangladesh, wouldn't they?”

“Probably.”

Ginny resumed massaging Draco's scalp and he was silent, thinking contentedly of the upcoming days on the Nile's blue waters.

1. The beginning of this verse (up to “now lost”) was taken from http://www.thepoetsgarret.com/celtic1.html . The rest is my own invention

2. This idea of a shining dust representing the energy in a surrounding environment comes from Pullman's “His Dark Materials”, a most delightful read for those of you who have enjoyed, as I have, Harry Potter, Eragon, and other equally magical books.

3. A vacherin is a cake made with meringue and ice-cream in altered layers, cemented with (home-made) whipped cream.

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• 31. From Violetta to Hathor

• June 8^th, 2001

• The Nile, Egypt.

• Aided by Draco, Ginny had no difficulty side-along Apparating to Egypt. She was far enough in her pregnancy that her sons' organs would not be damaged in the process, and the trip went smoothly. Draco had made all the necessary arrangements, using his influence and fortune to guaranty them a safe and rapid arrival in Luxor. A coach pulled by two ebony-black horses picked them up at the Apparition point, hidden behind an impressive stand of fresh fruit. They were then driven to where their personal cruise boat awaited them, bathed in the pink sunlight of the early morning. High above, the moon faded quickly, still visible over the valley of the Kings and Hatchepsut's temple. Ginny laughed in delight as they caught up with mules driven by kids and young men on bicycles who balanced large crates of bread on their head.

• She couldn't hold back a sigh of awe when she saw their boat. Looking very much like the traditional Egyptian barques of old, it was beautifully painted and boasted large, white sails. Draco helped Ginny board the barque with so much care and precaution that she felt like an invalid. Once on the boat, they both had the pleasure to note that the vessel was significantly more spacious than it originally appeared, like those tents enchanted to hold an entire household's worth of furniture. The crew, decked in white but for the maids who were in black, stood in a single line. Draco nodded to the man who had stepped forward and introduced himself as the captain.

• “Lady Malfoy, Lord Malfoy, welcome to the Nepthys (1). It is an honour to have you on board. We hope that you will enjoy your stay with us.”

• Ginny eyed the staff with some amusement, surprised as always by the deference money could buy. The men were pointedly gazing toward the horizon while the women kept their eyes lowered. They would, Ginny knew, make themselves as invisible and quiet as possible while fulfilling her and Draco's every wish.

• “On board you will find a pool, jaccuzzi, sauna and spa complete with massage services. There is a dining room, a ballroom, a smoking parlour, and a pool room. We are at your disposition should you need or desire anything. We will do our best to ensure that you are fully satisfied.”

• “Captain,” Draco said in acknowledgment.

• The man bowed and signalled to the rest, who left to resume their various occupations. A young steward, his eyes like charcoal and his skin nearly as dark as Blaise's, led them to their suite and left them there, asking them to call for Danial should they require his presence.

• “This is huge!” Ginny exclaimed as she visited the room's two bathrooms, boudoir, and office. “We even have two bedrooms, can you imagine? That's utterly preposterous.”

• Draco grinned wolfishly and took her in his arms.

• “Preposterous, indeed. Do you like it?”

• “Do I like it?” she laughed. “It's amazing! I can't wait to try the spa.”

• “I hope the masseur is a woman,” Draco said, his face darkening at once.

• “Does it really matter?” she asked, surprised as always by his misplaced jealousy.

• “Of course it does,” he replied sharply. “I'll make sure that no man other than me feels you up this week.”

• “Mmmh, you and your caveman instincts.”

• “And you love them.”

• “Sometimes,” she said, sounding unconvinced and then running away as he began tickling her.

• “So, what do you want to do?”

• “I'd like to visit the boat.”

Drco shrugged, but followed her out of the suite, discovering as she did the sumptuous premises his taste for luxury now afforded them. The corridors and public spaces were tastefully decorated, the marble floors covered with oriental rugs and the wooden ceilings hanging with Louis XVI chandeliers. Windows, framed with heavy curtains, opened onto the Nile's blue and green shores, making for a very soothing décor. Ginny smiled brighter each time they stumbled upon new rooms - an indoor garden, a tea-room, a library - while Draco tried to steal away kisses and pushed her in all the corners he could find. This felt like a second honeymoon, with only Ginny's pregnancy limiting their enthusiasm and energy.

Draco was at Ginny's beck and call, however, and had never been as preoccupied by her wellbeing as he now was, away from the jealous, judgmental and resentful looks of society. They were to spend two days in Aswan after a three day trip up the Nile. Draco categorically forbid her to go out between noon and five o'clock, when they took the time to rest in the cool penumbra of their suite. The rest of the time, Ginny wandered about, lounging on the rooftop under oversized parasols or dutifully executing her laps across the pool. Draco read her stories from books in the library, pretended to drown her whenever she was in the water, and occasionally locked himself in his office to deal with urgent Owls.

The banks of the Nile drifted by them leisurely, spiked with the occasional minaret or electric post. Ochre and orange villages buried into the palm trees, alternating with impressive ranges of deserts of red cliffs. Then and there, patches of papyrus added to the turquoise waters a colour of their own; buffalos, herons, and kids alike populated these moments of green.

Sumptuous meals gave way to delightful massages and evenings spent drinking mint tea under the stars. Lost in each other's presence, Ginny and Draco rediscovered what it was like to be careless and in love. One afternoon found Ginny in the hammam, pampered by two women who, though they did not speak English, communicated their congratulations for her pregnancy with smiles and gestures. The young woman let herself be taken care of, and followed dumbly as she was led into the sauna. Five hot and dry minutes later, the women returned to get her and made her stand in a shallow pool. Using an exfoliating glove and orange flower soap, they scrubbed her skin so hard it turned pink. Disgruntled at first, Ginny then took some satisfaction in imagining all the impurities, physical or emotional, from her body. She was grateful nonetheless when they rinsed her off and made her lie down on a heated marble table.

As per Draco's orders, a masseuse had been invited on the boat to tend to Ginny; she was also a mid-wife and knew exactly how to handle women, as Ginny found out when the woman palpated her limbs. Her hands were strong yet gentle, going lightly over sensitive parts without sparing the tired muscles or knotted nerves. Ginny felt like a baby once again and abandoned herself to the masseuse's soothing touch. When she emerged from the hammam an hour later, Ginny felt like her old body had been disposed of. Relaxed, appeased, her skin so soft it would have made a peach jealous, Ginny found her husband on the deck, smoking hookah.

A few days on board had convinced Draco that black dress robes were the best way to slowly die of heat, so he had traded his for wide pants and shirts made of linen. Ginny liked that look on him, as it made him seem more relaxed, happier. She reached him as a cloud of thick, white smoke escaped from his lips, filling the air with the rich perfume of apples.

“Hey, you,” she said as she placed her hand on his shoulder.

Draco turned and gave her that heart melting smile that was all she needed to know she was with the right man. He helped her sit down and extinguished the sheesha with a flick of his wand, always careful of tobacco's effect on his unborn children.

“You smell good,” he said, his arm around her, his nose buried in her hair.

“So do you.”

They sat in silence for a while, letting the purple and gold tones of sunset gather above their heads. The shiny blue waters, occasionally streaked by a lone bird's wing, grew darker as the sun turned red and slowly sank below the horizon, making the palm trees and rocky reliefs in its way seem like paper cut outs.

“I like being with you,” Ginny said contentedly.

A few seconds passed, the silence neither tense nor expectant.

“Me too,” Draco said at last.

He put his hand on her belly and waited for the tell-tale kick, which wasn't long in coming. One of his sons always responded to his touch, and this usually prompted a series of movements that had made Ginny eventually agree to take a pain-reducing potion each morning. The massages helped as well, so that the young woman no longer suffered form backaches.

“Do you like opera?” Draco asked suddenly.

“Uhm… I like the music, but I've only ever been to the opera with you and you never asked - “

“Do you?” he repeated.

“Sure, yes.”

“Good. Then we're going to the opera tomorrow night.”

“But, Draco, we're in the middle of nowhere.”

He shrugged, but when she lifted her face to look at him she saw the familiar, self-satisfied grin on his features.

“How long have you been planning this for?” Ginny asked with a sigh.

“The opera or the trip?”

For Ginny, the voyage had definitely been an impromptu decision, and not once had she imagined the possibility that Draco had been plotting this.

“Both.”

“Well, I wanted to take you there after I… well, before you… ran away.” It was his turn to sigh, and Ginny felt an uncustomary vulnerability in his voice. “I knew you would be angry with me after I confronted you, but the thought of us parting was just impossible. I hoped that this would, err… mollify you, and that we could work together to convince you that marrying me was the best thing you'd ever done.”

“You thought you could buy my affection with a trip to Egypt?” Ginny asked, amused. “How shallow do you think I am?”

“I didn't think, I hoped,” Draco corrected her gently. “Then you ran away, so it didn't matter. I was beyond myself with worry, with rage, with… With hurt. I hadn't hurt like this since the day Voldemort promised to kill my parents if I failed him. I thought I could never feel that way again, like my actions could endanger all that mattered to me, and here I was, blinded by my emotions for the first time since I had become a man, but now armed with a determination and skills that Rabastan had not yet imparted upon me at the time. Egypt was not at the forefront of my mind anymore, I assure you.”

“I'm sorry,” Ginny said after a pause. “I shouldn't have left you the way I did.”

“You shouldn't have left me.”

“Draco…”

“No. Things would have turned out all right in the long run. I would have made sure that they did.”

“With a trip to Egypt,” Ginny repeated incredulously, her voice holding a hint of venom.

“And copious amounts of sex. Perhaps some diamonds, too.”

“Maybe something along the lines of `I love you' would have helped,” Ginny suggested, knowing full well that he had yet to tell her that.

“You know it wouldn't have.”

He was, of course, absolutely right. Had she stopped long enough to even listen to him, she would never have believed him.

“I know. I—“ Ginny began, then huddled closer to her husband's warm body. “Can we not think about this right now, please?”

Draco nodded, relieved as well to close the topic. He had no doubt that they would return to it, but the fact that they could discuss it without threatening to tear each other apart was indicative of some progress.

“So I'm taking you to the opera tomorrow night.”

“But where?” Ginny asked, gesturing to the Nile's empty banks and emerald patches of papyrus.

“You'll see. You'll like it.”

He was so sure of himself that Ginny had to laugh.

“Of course I will.”

“You always do. I know what makes you happy,” he said with the assurance of a tenured professor.

“Yes, and about those diamonds—“ Ginny began cheekily.

“You don't like diamonds,” Draco interrupted her, his tone gentle and teasing. “You like topazes because they match your eyes, red rubies because your hair, surprisingly enough, doesn't clash with them, and emeralds, although you'll never admit that because you think I'll feel responsible - and victorious—for making you like Slytherin colours.”

Ginny stared at him in utter disbelief.

“How did you—“

He shrugged.

“Draco, I told you not to use Legilimency on me!”

“I didn't,” he said with such finality that she had to trust his word. “I just know you, Gin. Sometimes even better than you know yourself.”

“Please…” she snorted.

Draco kissed the top her head.

“You know it's true.”

“Is not.”

“I won't lower myself to saying `is too'.”

“Is not.”

“Ginny….”

She laughed and kissed what she could reach of him - his neck -- thoroughly enjoying the subtle scent of his cologne as she did so. He shifted his face to kiss her soundly on the lips. She kissed him back, wanting nothing more to be this carefree, this happy, this close to him forever. She felt an intense and almost desperate pleasure build inside her chest, like an ache and a fulfilment at the same time. It made her want to cry, yet she knew that, if she did, her tears would be the happiest she'd ever shed. She was beginning to understand that she had found a new home in this man whose feelings were as dangerous as they were sharp.

“I love you,” Draco murmured against her lips.

Ginny pressed her forehead against his and looked straight into his mercurial eyes.

“Yeah, I love you too,” she answered.

***

June 9^th, 2001

Philae Island, Egypt.

From the moment the overture began, with its slow crescendo of violins, Draco could tell, from the tears he saw brimming in Ginny's eyes, that he'd chosen the right opera. They were seated in the inner courtyard of the Philae temple, caught between two dams on the river Nile. An enchanted felucca, guided by a little black boy who hadn't said a word, had taken the Malfoys across the lake, its warm waters slit as if by a blade under the boat's swift progress. The temple sat on a little island amidst fans of papyrus plants and a plethora of black cats that lounged on broken columns. The sun, which had begun its descent toward the horizon, cast golden shadows on the temple's ancient stones, gilding them with peach tints.

Several rows of armchairs and divans had been installed facing the main temple, each endowed with its own coffee table and water-pipe. Draco had, immediately upon their arrival, cast a bubble around their seats to protect Ginny from the tobacco smoke. He had helped her lower herself onto the divan, appreciating the smile of enjoyment that graced her lips when she reclined, bringing her legs to the side and sitting back. He'd taken a seat next to her and laced his fingers with hers, thinking that, in this stunning setting, she could have been one of the pagan goddess of fertility once worshipped in this temple.

Now, the dark purple hues of night were unfurling through the sky like China ink dropped into water. Ginny allowed herself to be completely absorbed in Verdi's “La Traviata”, pulled into Violetta's tragic story by the enchanting music and breathtaking scenery. By her side, somewhat amused, Draco followed the arias and brindisis (2) of a courtesan whose love for a man of higher status had caused her demise. He watched the opera itself as much as he did his wife, feeling increasingly attuned to the opera's genius as he saw how she smiled during the flirtatious brindisi, how she frowned during Giorgio Germont's exhortation for Violetta to leave his son, how her eyes widened when the gypsies began their bewitching chant. Verdi's music, Draco realized after years of dutifully following his parents to an opera that he generally held in contempt, was a language for the soul; only now that Ginny was with him could he finally understand that.

When her lover, mad with despair, cast his gains at Violetta's feet, Ginny's curious frown turned into a grimace of surprise. She closed her eyes and her entire face twisted, looking like one of the masks worn by the actors on the scene as they condemned Alfredo Germont. Only when Ginny brought her hands to her belly did Draco understand that her reaction had little to do with the opera's poignant scene.

“What is it?” he asked as her fingers tightened around his like a vice grip.

“I think they're coming,” Ginny whispered, her face relaxing temporarily.

“Are you sure?”

She glared at him.

“Yes. The contractions have been going on since the beginning of the opera and they're getting more pronounced,” she hissed, annoyed. “I need to go.”

Draco shot up so fast that someone observing him would have thought he had been bitten by a snake. He glanced about feverishly. This elicited a chuckle from Ginny.

“Don't worry, this should take a little while. I'd rather not be seated on this lovely divan when my water breaks, is all.”

The young man nodded.

“I'll Levitate you back to the barge.”

“I can walk,” Ginny said, rolling her eyes, but another contraction began and she focused on appeasing the pain.

“Not a chance,” he responded, astonished by the intense anxiety that rippled through him.

“Lord Malfoy,” came a voice behind them.

He turned around, wand in hand, to find himself face to face with the masseuse he had hired to take care of Ginny. His surprise upon finding her here was accompanied by the impression that she had been much younger when he had last seen her. Deep wrinkles marked her face, making it look like a prune. Her eyes, however, shined brighter than ever with a dark fire, filled with intelligence and compassion beyond any Draco could expect from a woman he considered a servant.

“If I may,” she said, her voice soft yet filled with authority, “it would be better for Lady Malfoy to remain on the island until the twin boys are born. There is a room appointed to that effect.”

“A room appointed—“ Draco snapped, but he was interrupted by Ginny's hand on his arm.

“We will follow you,” she told the old woman.

Without knowing why, she felt that she could trust the woman as though she had been Mrs. Weasley herself. She, too, was surprised by the masseuse's presence, yet she knew that this could not be a coincidence. The vibes of powerful magic that emanated from the crone may have gone unnoticed by Draco, who, as a man, was not versed in the age-old sorcery of women and motherhood, but Ginny could sense that magic was at work and let herself be led. Without a noise, they exited the inner courtyard of the temple. The old woman's grip on her hand was strong without being painful, and the support and independence it afforded were a far cry from Draco's over bearing protectiveness. Ginny found that she liked this, as she, in a moment like this, did not need babying so much as the encouragement to begin a new phase of her life.

Slipping past the columns of a structure that ran along the courtyard, they entered it. From the carved walls hung torches bright with warm flames, as though their presence were expected. The light and shadows revealed sumptuous reliefs of Egyptian gods carved into the stone and restored to perfection, the colours of old gracing the temple with their beauty.

“This is the mammisi,” the old woman said as she pulled Ginny further into the structure. “The birth house.”

Draco nearly sniggered, doubtful that a temple would be equipped with a birthing room. He did not know what, of the old woman's aura or the temple's mysterious atmosphere, prevented him from doing so. He did, however, keep his wand in hand, should anything unorthodox come to happen. At last they reached the inner sanctum, of which a wide divan occupied the center. It was piled with thick pillows, and the woman helped Ginny take a seat there.

“It's really hot,” the redhead moaned, running a hand across her forehead where beads of sweat had started to form.

With one wave of her hand, the crone motioned to the walls of the temple, atop which several small opening appeared. Immediately, a warm breezed entered the temple. The woman plunged a cloth in a water basin that seemed created to that effect and wiped Ginny's face with patient care. Draco, meanwhile, glanced about the room, shocked to find items which, he assumed, were to be used during childbirth. He grimaced upon seeing the forceps, but recognized raspberry leaves and goldenseal, which could alleviate pain and facilitate contractions of any sort (3). Somewhat mollified, he walked over to Ginny and caressed her face. In one, swift motion, her eyes not even trained on him, she caught his hand and brought it down to her lap, where she squeezed it as though her life depended on it.

“Does it hurt?” he asked, wanting to Avada himself for putting her in this situation.

If only he hadn't been so obsessed with making her betray herself, with having children from the woman he loved against her will, she would not be in such pain right now.

“Not really,” she said, and then winced another set of contractions began. “Yes. A little bit.”

She kept her breathing shallow and rapid, appreciating how, somehow, this made the contractions feel somewhat less painful.

“Cardiographos,” the old woman murmured, swishing a wand that was as ancient and gnarled as the woman herself.

From the wand sprang a blue ball of energy that went straight for Ginny's chest. When it emerged again, it was green and pulsed rapidly without being alarming.

“Her heart rate,” the woman explained to Draco, who was livid with worry. “Everything is fine, Lord Malfoy.”

But his eyes were on the cushions below Ginny.

“What's going on?” he asked, panicked.

Ginny made a mental note to tease him about it later, focusing instead on the warm fluid now soaking the cushions.

“Her waters broke,” the old woman said without missing a beat. “We'll wait to make sure it's all evacuated and then I'll dry this up. You're doing well,” she added, the hint of a smile making her face appear even more like crumpled parchment.

“It's okay, Draco,” Ginny confirmed. “I'm fine. Could you get me some water please?”

This was exactly what the young man needed, as watching the birthing process was effectively driving him crazy. Desperately, he looked for a glass, a cup, anything to satisfy his wife.

“Uhm, darling,” she said between two puffs. “You're a wizard. Try Transfiguration.”

“Yes, Transfiguration, yes.”

In a somewhat expert fashion, considering the state of bewilderment in which he appeared to find himself, Draco transformed a neighbouring brick into a mug that he then filled with a muttered “Aguamenti”. Ginny took the cup from him and drank from it in one quick gulp. A thin sheen of sweat covered her forehead, though it was due more to the ambient warmth than to exertion, the difficult phase of labour having not yet begun. Draco, ignorant of this, paced about anxiously, as though ready to catch his newborn sons if they came flying within the following minutes. Regularly, the old woman examined Ginny, and after a little while she cast a short series of spell.

“What's wrong? What are you doing?” Draco barked immediately.

The glare the woman aimed at him was surprisingly ferocious for a woman of her stature and age.

“Providing her with enough glucose that she won't die of exhaustion before her labour is over,” she said softly, “and giving her ocytocin to provoke contractions.”

“Ocyto—“

“When you can't understand the answers to the questions you ask, Lord Malfoy, it is usually better not to ask them in the first place.”

Ginny giggled as Draco blanched, his fists tightening in anger.

“Draco,” she murmured, effectively distracting him. “This might take a while. Why don't you go rest a bit and the midwife will come get you later?”

“Later?” he all but snapped. “I'd rather not be sleeping when my sons are born.”

“You won't be, I promise. It's just that, well… Eight hours is a long time.”

“More like ten, my dear, with this being your first time and the two of them being little males.”

“How did you know that?” Ginny asked, yet again surprised by the woman's clairvoyance.

But the old lady merely shrugged and somewhat forcefully ushered Draco out of the room. Ginny was able to hear the dwindling sound of their voices as her husband was exiled, and smiled tiredly when the wrinkly woman returned.

“Ten hours, then?” she mused in a small voice.

“Probably,” the old woman confirmed as she drew a fresh and fragrant cloth across Ginny's face and neck. “Don't worry, and try not to think about it too much. You were programmed to do this.”

“Draco told you about the Weasley genes, did he now?” Ginny asked wearily, barely noticing when the woman eased her out of her ballroom gown and enveloped her in a wide dress of light and comfortable cotton.

“You are a woman, my dear. If thinking were required of future mothers, overpopulation would not be a problem.”

Ginny smiled and acknowledged the fact. She let herself calm down under the woman's care, contractions still shooting through her every several minutes. Something about the atmosphere around her, though, about the coppery penumbra of the inner sanctum and the warm air floating through, made her feel like things would be all right after all. Growing up, she had always known she would want children, but she had expected Molly to be the one holding her hand through the beautiful ordeal of childbirth. She remained certain that her mother and the rest of her family, including Harry, watched over her now; she hoped that they would not resent her for abandoning her quest for revenge, though she knew that they had loved her enough during their lifetime not to begrudge her a new chance at happiness.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the elder woman's voice. As she bustled about, heating some water and grinding caraway seeds, the woman sang a very strange but oddly comforting song. Ginny quickly gave up trying to understand the lyrics, instead allowing the melody to lull her into a half-sleep. Dimly, she felt pangs of pain rhythmically hacking at her body, but she knew that it was only a matter of time now before things really started, and she patiently waited for instinct to awaken her.

***

When Ginny rose from her nap several hours later, her eyes had to adapt to the darkness reigning about her. She tried to move, but the pain in her limbs was such that she quickly relented. Her throat was so dry she had difficulty swallowing. She was about to question her situation when the memories of the past hours assailed her. Hovering between fantastic dream and fantastic nightmare, she recalled how at some point in the night the contractions had grown increasingly frequent and painful, causing her to double over. The midwife had gently but unswervingly made her sit back and focus on her respiration. She had given her herbs and cast spells, but the ache had barely abated, ebbing and flowing as she felt her body accommodate to welcome her sons into the world.

She recalled Draco, haggard and livid with concern, barging into the room as she shrieked for her mother. She had dismissed him in no uncertain terms, screamed at him to stay out of the room if he valued his life and tried desperately to follow the midwife's orders as the woman wiped her face and neck. Dying of heat, soaked in sweat and water and, she suspected, blood, Ginny had not seen the time go by, so absorbed in the sensation of giving birth, that mixed pleasure and pain, that she had not had many rational thoughts after that.

How she felt when the midwife showed her the minuscule bundle that was her son, though, Ginny would always remember, though she did not know whether she would ever find the appropriate words to describe her elation. As the child's tiny mewl resonated through the chamber, quickly drowned by its mother's huffs and puffs and sobs of happiness, Draco had decided to brave the interdiction and entered the mammisi. The adoration with which he had gazed at Ginny was only equalled by the incredulous wonder that lit his features when he saw the baby in the midwife's arms. It had been bloody and sticky still, but breathed freely and grimaced as only newborns do. Draco had gestured to take it in his arms, but had found his son so small and frail that he hesitated.

“Take him,” the old woman had said gently. “I need to help his mother with the second one.”

And so, as Ginny resumed her work giving birth to her second son, Draco had received the most glorious present he could ever have hoped for. The boy fit almost perfectly in his father's large hand, but Draco held him so tightly that the child had started crying softly. Easing his hold but terribly worried about dropping him, the new patriarch had calmed down as soon as the whimpering stopped. Speaking gentle, incoherent words to the child, he had then turned a watchful eye toward his wife.

Somehow, she had summoned enough strength to bring her second child about. Drenched in sweat, laughing and panting and crying, she had welcomed both babies against her, not even noticing when the midwife severed their umbilical cord and gave them a quick wash. Within a few seconds, both boys had found their rightful place, their little mouths latching onto her breasts so naturally that mother and sons were immediately appeased. Ginny had fallen asleep then, Draco standing but inches away from her and eyeing his offspring like an overly fond hawk, while the old woman discreetly left the room.

Draco had dozed off at some point and his head now rested on Ginny's lap. Ginny tried to chuckle but was too tired to do even that; she would also have risked awakening her two little boys, precariously nested within her arms and breasts, and she was loathe to do that. Gently, she let her hands run on their smooth skin, marvelling at how soft and precious they were. She smiled upon noticing their white blond hair, fairer still than their father's, and she knew he was probably pleased by the fact. As though awakened by her very thoughts, Draco stirred and slowly opened his eyes. He was disoriented at first, like Ginny had been, but he lost no time in finding his bearings and looking up, his eyes finding hers like magnets the North Pole.

“Hey,” he whispered.

“Hi.”

“How are you feeling?” he asked, carefully sitting, his gaze full of concern.

“Thirsty.”

He summoned a cup and pressed it cautiously against her lips. She drank from it greedily.

“This tastes amazing,” she said,

“The midwife said you would be parched when you woke up,” he explained as he reset it next to the divan. “She left this for you.”

“I feel better already,” Ginny confirmed, though this may have stemmed more from the utter happiness she read in Draco's eyes than from the actual drink.

She had never seen him like this, so attentive and unguarded at the same time, as though the birth of their children had broken whatever obstacles remained between them and allowed him to transcend his usual circumspection. She knew this was temporary, of course, that come morning he would be the Draco Malfoy she loved but often misunderstood, but the moment they shared was the strong confirmation of the rightfulness of their choices. He kneeled by her side once again, placing his hand against her cheek. The shadows around them shifted slowly, blue and purple like the spectre of dawn, undulating between the carved columns.

“You are so beautiful.”

She snickered.

“Yes, and I really believe you.”

Draco rolled his eyes and tucked a wayward strand of her hair behind her ear.

“You are. Despite the rings under your eyes and the fact that you look like -“

“You should be more respectful of the mother of your children,” she snapped good-naturedly.

“I am.”

He looked so pious and repentant that she guffawed outright this time, and the tremor or the sound of her full-throated laugh awoke one of the boys. Without even bothering to cry, he glued his little hand to her breast and affixed his lips to it, taking greedy gulps at once. His eyes hadn't even opened.

“This one's a trouble-maker,” Draco said, looking fondly at the gluttonous babe. “Bellowed as soon as he had enough air in his lungs, and griped until he was set on your left breast. It appears to be his favourite.”

“It's yours, too,” Ginny pointed out cheekily, and Draco had the good grace to look remotely contrite. “Ow. You're a strong little one,” she cooed to the unperturbed child.

“Then he should be Valerian.”

As soon as Draco had uttered those words, a silver smoke slid from his mouth and wrapped around the child, enveloping him in a platinum aura that vanished promptly thereafter.

“And that makes you Aurelian,” Ginny said, turning to the twin that still slept peacefully.

She was surprised when a golden smoke snaked past her lips and enfolded her other son in a coppery shimmer.

“A Gryffindor and a Slytherin, eh?” she whispered, amused.

“I don't think it's as simple as that, love,” Draco said as he crouched next to her once again. “But then again, you Gryffindors understand nothing about subtlety and the sacred nature of things.”

Ginny shrugged.

“Puritan,” she hissed.

“Plebeian.”

Manoeuvring carefully so that neither of her sons were jostled by her movements, she lightly slapped Draco on the back of his head. He caught her hand and placed the other one around her, further securing the babies' positions on their mother's stomach.

“You know, despite your horrid habits and commoner's prejudices, I love you.”

“You could have done without the disclaimer.”

“We don't do wholehearted, teary-eyed, disclaimer-free emotion.”

“Guess you'll just have to learn, then,” Ginny said, smiling brightly. “Draco, I love you.”

“And I, you.”

They turned their eyes to their twin sons as the rising sun's glow highlighted the ivory of their skin. Valerian had fallen asleep again, but not without nudging his brother, whose sole response was a yawn. Ginny smiled, hoping that the Malfoy genes would temper the destructive tendencies of Weasley twins. She closed her eyes. Draco, lost in the contemplation of the three beings that meant most to him, let the soothing rhythm of their synchronized breathing lull him into a sense of peace. The new day ate away at the temple's remaining shadows, coating the sleeping family with light and hope.

THE END

• (1) Nepthys was the sister of goddess Isis. She helped her revive Isis' husband, Osiris, after he had been killed by Seth; the goddesses used their wings to provide him with a new breath of life.

• (2) According to Wikipedia, an aria is “an expressive melody, usually, but not always, performed by a singer. The term is now used almost exclusively to describe a self-contained piece for one voice usually with orchestral accompaniment” and a brindisi is “a song in which a company is exhorted to drink.”

• (3) The information about these plants comes from: http://www.gardenguides.com/plants/info/herbs/preg.asp

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Epilogue

Nineteen years later.

(just kidding)

Seven years later.

“Go away!”

“But I want to—“

“He said go away, Nosy, so go away!”

The little girl looked longingly at her brothers, disappearing behind the walls of the sand castle. They were reinforcing them with sea-polished stones, and she would truly have loved to help, but they would simply not let her. She cast them a resentful glance; already they were buried deep in conversation, their white blond heads bent over the ditches, their hands flying about and touching gently to communicate the mysterious words only the twins knew.

Nausicaa sighed, picked up her bucket and shovel, and walked away. Her dark grey eyes brimming with tears, she flitted from seashell to pebble until a flubbery, white mass caught her attention. She quickly shot a look at where the adults were, rarely paying her any attention but always on time to prevent her from making a fun discovery, and, finding them absorbed in their discussion, cautiously inched her chubby little hand toward the gelatinous thing.

“Don't touch it!”

Sure enough, Suleiman stood there, his dark eyes intent on the redhead's, his seven year old body a small but unwavering barrier between the little girl and her treasure.

“What are you doing here?” she snapped angrily, not particularly respectful of her two-years senior.

“Making sure you don't hurt yourself,” he retorted calmly, the hint of a smirk at the corner of his lips. Blaise often reproached Draco for having passed it on to his godson in addition to his sons and cherished daughter.

“Like you care.”

“Of course I do. I'll get in trouble if something happens to you.”

“You're not my brother,” Nausicaa went on bitterly. “They'll get in trouble if something happens to me, not you. And they would deserve it, too.”

Again, tears threatened to spill from her eyes. Suleiman saw the redness that usually covered his friend's freckles when she was both angry and sad, but fighting desperately not to show it. He stepped aside, took her hand, and put a long stick in it. He himself was holding another branch, and with it he prodded the dead animal.

“It's a jellyfish,” he said. “If you touch it, it'll burn you, even though it's dead.”

“A jelly-fish? Where are its tentacles?” she asked, having a hard time associating this gelatinous orb with the flower-like creatures that roamed the seas.

In one, precise gesture, Suleiman used the stick to flip the jelly-fish over, revealing the tangled mass of sand-stained tentacles. Nausicaa frowned in disgust —this was clearly not what she had expected—but quickly schooled her features to reflect indifference; after all, she was in the presence of another person, who might mistake her distaste for fear. The youngest Malfoy would not have that.

“We could bring pieces of it back on the sticks and throw them at Valerian and Aurelian,” she murmured darkly.

“We could also build a tomb for it,” Suleiman suggested airily. “With a stone altar, wooden fences, bottomless ditches and—“

“And?” the little girl asked, wonder sparkling in her eyes.

“Stars,” he said, opening his hand to reveal two starfish, a blue one and a red one, still moist from the stone under which he had retrieved them.

Nausicaa looked at him adoringly, all schemes of vengeance forgotten in an instant, too amazed by the incredible things a boy her brothers' age could conjure. They started working on the mausoleum immediately.

From underneath the parasols, Ginny observed her sons with a smile. She had bathed them in sun-potion every single hour, and was glad to see their skin turn golden rather than red. Ever since their birth, Draco had insisted that neither they nor Nausicaa be allowed in the sun for more than an hour at a time, but Ginny had fought that decree, and won. Her boys enjoyed playing outside so much that she could not bring herself to regret it. One of them looked up and smiled, which caused the other to pause and follow his brother's gaze. Upon meeting his mother's glance, his golden eyes crinkled and he stuck out his tongue. Ginny shook her finger in warning and Valerian immediately backed down, while Aurelian, amused at his brother's silliness, shrugged and resumed construction of their castle.

“You'll be hearing about Valerian quite a bit once he begins attending Hogwarts, I expect,” Shehzin commented, readjusting her sunglasses.

“About Aurelian too, make no mistake. That child may look cute and innocent, but he will get them out of any trouble Valerian gets them in, granting them many occasions to do it again.”

Shehzin laughed, her teeth an immaculate row of white between her plump cheeks.

“You know them too well.”

“I thought I knew my twin brothers well, but I can read these two like none other. Well, better than Draco, anyway,” Ginny conceded. “Which means that… Where is Nausicaa?” she suddenly wondered, screening the beach for familiar auburn hair.

“With Suleiman, over there,” Shehzin said, pointing to the dark skinned boy who was turning over stones for the little girl.

“You know, I always thought he, Valerian, and Aurelian would become the best of friends, but—“

“That could never compare with what your sons share.”

“I'm so glad he's patient enough to play with Nausicaa. She's a difficult one, at times. Draco spoils her rotten.”

“But Suli has always wanted a younger sibling, and she's just that for him. No amount of brattiness will keep him away.”

A content smile graced Ginny's features, already made brighter by the slight sunburn no parasol could keep at bay.

“I can only hope they'll be sorted in the same house,” she added. “It might be hard for her to make good friends otherwise. She's simply too demanding…”

“Don't forget snobby, like her good old dad,” Blaise chimed in, leaning over the chaise longue to kiss his wife hello.

Shehzin muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “Well I wasn't going to say so but…”

“My daughter is not snobby!” Ginny snapped, laughing.

“Neither is her father,” Draco pointed out, having noiselessly walked over to where both women sat.

This earned him three dubious looks, which he met placidly. Blaise peered about, searching for his son.

“He's with Nausicaa,” his wife informed him.

“That's a surprise,” Blaise said, his tone indicating that such was not the case. In one swift motion, he pulled off his business robes, revealing an impeccably sculpted body in boxer bathing shorts. Shehzin gulped audibly, which caused Ginny to choke back a laugh, and moved forward to allow her husband to slide behind her on the chair. She sighed contentedly as she leaned back against him and delight shone in his raven-black eyes. Ginny turned to Draco, clad in similarly formal robes, who stood gazing fondly at their children. Before she could utter a word, and without turning to her, he growled, “No, I will not be displaying my athletic body in a skimpy bathing suit today.”

Ginny rolled her eyes but had to smile, remembering the days he had spent after their last sunbath, complaining that the reddish tinge would never leave his skin and that there was a reason parasols existed. She held out her arms to him, and he must have perceived the movement from the corner of his eyes, for he looked at her, at her welcoming gesture and warm smile, at the sunburn on her cheeks which, he was sure, he would find on all three of his children's faces as well. He sat down next to her. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him soundly, then held to him tightly as both couples watched their children.

Chalchiuhtlicue was the most isolated island in the archipelago composing the much feared triangle of the Bermuda. Tlaloc may have been larger, Tecciztecatl boasted steeper ravines and lusher forests, and the reefs surroundings Xochipili abounded with fluorescent fish and adventurous oceanids, but one seeking peace and quiet in the most refined, secluded safe-haven would have chosen Chalchiuhtlicue in a heartbeat. That is why Draco, upon being offered this jewel of an island by an immensely indebted business partner, had agreed to the renewal of their deal and presented his wife with a consequent present for the birth of Nausicaa. Ginny had immediately fallen in love with the rocky ravines (although Draco forbid her from walking there unless protected from falls by a spell), with the mesmerizing waters (although Draco always made sure she was protected from drowning by another series of charms), with the luxuriant vegetation and fantastic fauna (by which she and the children could not be harmed, as per a very powerful spell cast between the Malfoys and the island immediately upon their arrival). If Draco had greeted the first tropical rainshowers with furious bewilderment, he had rapidly been convinced of their advantages when, leaving the children with Izha, Ginny had taken him for a few hours of breathless madness under the pouring rain.

Eventually, even Draco had grown to appreciate the cozy, sun-washed beaches nestled in crooks of the cliff. Often he would take Nausicaa for a walk along the various escarpments, listening to her incessant babble as it fought with exotic bird cries for the privilege of breaking the silence. With Aurelian and Valerian, he went for long walks under the canopies, sometimes allowing them to climb up the giant trees' gnarled bark, more often than not having to pull them back from the tangled roots or burrows that turned the rainforest into the ideal playground for children. It had taken three months of relentless begging on Ginny's part for Shehzin and Blaise, accompanied by Suleiman, to be allowed onto the island. As Draco had warned, they never stopped coming from then on; he simply didn't find it within himself to actually mind that fact. Especially when he saw the way Suleiman and Nausicaa could give Valerian and Aurelian [ a run for their money] where sand battles were concerned.

“The storm is coming,” Blaise said, propping himself up to see beyond Shehzin's leonine mane. “Suleiman, Nausicaa!” he called.

The children looked up to see dark clouds gathering, and finally noticed the strong winds lashing out at them. Valerian and Aurelian, on the other hand, were lying on their backs in the center of their castle, hands a few millimeters apart, eyes riveted to the hurricane forming.

“Valerian!” Draco called shortly, as Ginny shouted, “Aurelian!” her voice warm yet imperative like only mothers' voices can be.

The twins sat up as one. One boy helped the other, then both picked up their shovels and buckets before running toward their parents. In his childish haste to get back to his parents, Valerian pushed past Nausicaa and Suleiman, causing the little girl to trip and nearly fall, but Aurelian was there and prevented her from falling. He ruffled her dark red hair. A light rain started falling.

“Come on, slow poke. Suli, I'll race you there!” Aurelian chirped.

“You're on,” Suleiman said, smiling. He handed the rake he was holding to Nausicaa, who grinned mischievously and watched as Blaise's son effortlessly beat her brother.

By the time the children had reached the adults, the sky was black and the tide significantly more violent. A strong rain splattered against the sea. All watched with mingled excitement and anxiety as the hurricane sped closer, gathering clouds to it as it went as though twirling gray cotton candy on the stick of its axis. It reached the island a few minutes later, forecasted by high waves that moved right through the island without moving a grain of sand. Nausicaa, eyes wide with delight, grasped Suleiman's hand as the sea coursed through them as though part of a parallel dimension, pulsing and foaming like blood gushing from a wound. The wind about them blew furiously, they could tell, from the slight tremors they could feel despite the protective spell around the island.

There was a moment of silence as time stood still and they found themselves in the eye of the storm, surrounded by swirling masses of wind and water, minuscule creatures at the heart of Nature's unleashed wrath. Ginny, buried in Draco's arms, ringlets of copper hair flying about her face, nudged him. He followed her gaze toward Suleiman and Nausicaa and frowned, every bit like the demanding and jealous father his had been. Ginny shook her hair, smiling at his reaction, and turned against him, her hands tenderly on his cheeks. He smirked. She rolled her eyes. He kissed her. Valerian and Aurelian, their white blond hair like a halo around their identical faces, shone in the twisted penumbra of the storm's eye.

The hurricane moved on, water and air once again merging into a devastating force of nature, heading toward the coasts of other, similarly protected Wizarding isles. As soon as the wind had died down, the sea level sank back, and the fascinated silence that had fallen upon Chalchiuhtlicue was broken by bird cries, shortly followed by Shehzin's voice.

“Who wants to go for a swim?”

A chorus of “Me! Me! Me!” followed her and Blaise to the sea. Perpetually in awe of their children, Ginny gazed fondly at them, her fingers entwined with Draco's. Knowing that she was too engrossed with the kids to even notice his gesture, he looked down at her, relishing the smoothness of her skin and the constellation of freckles on her shoulders, made obvious by a few days in the sun.

Suddenly, a cry of excitement rang, making both Ginny and Draco turn in surprise. Lorelei, now a pretty teenager of more than satisfactory magical skills, was walking toward them, holding the hand of Faolan Lupin.

“It's beautiful!” he exclaimed, eyes trained on the ocean, as his hair turned a greenish blue to match that of the water.

Lorelei laughed and ruffled his hair affectionately.

“Wait until you try the water: it's warmer than in the bathtub.”

“Impossible,” he replied with the childish assurance of kids who know everything.

“See for yourself,” she said, and together they walked to the seaside after brief hellos to Aunty Gin and Uncle Draco.

“Where are the rest?” Ginny called to them.

“Coming!”

But Faolan and Lorelei were much more absorbed by the sea than they were by the prospect of giving more detailed information, so the adults had to wait a few additional minutes for Remus, Tonks and Leo to join them. The men were thoroughly engrossed in their conversation, which centered, as it usually did, on Defense Against the Dark Arts. Leo was so absorbed by the topic that he often helped their new teacher, Helena Burkes, who in his opinion could not compare to Remus but did not have the misfortune of being a werewolf. Tonks trailed behind them, amused, and occasionally corrected her husband while keeping an eye on the now sea-star coloured hair of her son.

“Hey guys!” she said with her legendary enthusiasm as she plopped down next to her cousin.

Draco eyed her neutrally, never completely at ease in her presence. Ginny suspected that, in addition to the bad blood between their parents, her energy and lack of tact had something to do with his behaviour, though she had more than once caught him giving her a fond glance; she knew he admired Tonks' resilience and her ability to make the best with what she had. All Ginny had to do now was to get Draco to come to terms with his own feelings.

“Oh, Ginny, you got an owl, by the way,” Tonks said shortly after Remus had settled down by her side.

“The poor thing arrived right before the storm and was half scared to death,” he added, smiling peacefully as he drew a reclining chair. “We figured we'd wait for it to end before meeting up with you, so here's the message.”

He handed Ginny a scroll of fine parchment, wrapped with a beautiful ribbon. Ginny suspected it came from Narcissa and was therefore surprised to find it addressed to her rather than Draco.

“Where's Lorelei?” Leo asked as Ginny unrolled the parchment.

“Over there with Faolan,” Draco said, keeping his eyes on Ginny and waiting for her reaction.

He saw her smile as she went over the beginning lines.

“Dear Ginny,

“I imagine that you are currently on the beach, trying to convince Draco to get his albino skin under the sun. I figured I would interrupt that struggle - as you are bound to fail - and convey some matters which may be of interest to you.”

Ginny smirked, recognizing Izha's tone and her distant mockery of Draco.

“You'll be happy to hear that the Manor is still standing despite your prolonged absence, though the house elves have resorted to scrubbing clean every inch of the Manor to stave off boredom. Several times a day. I've been reading your mail as promised and thus received from Hermione the revelation that the fight is finally won. This morning, the Wizengamot court ruled the Laws of Blood Purity as unconstitutional. Hermione and your colleagues at Equality for Magical Beings are celebrating as we speak this new hope for the wizarding community. She will soon be able to return to England with Harry Arthur, as will Remus, his family, and the countless other wizards exiled because of these ridiculous laws.”

Ginny let out a scream of triumph.

“The Laws have been abrogated!” she squealed. “We did it!”

Tonks hugged her fiercely and rushed to her husband, soon finding herself caught in a very tight and very relieved embrace. Ginny turned to Draco a bit sheepishly, belatedly realizing what she had just admitted.

“I, uh…” she began. “Please don't be angry with me - I know you will and you've every right to - but I've -“

“Been working for EMB for the past four years,” Draco completed.

She eyed him warily.

“Yes, I have. It's really not what you—“

“I know, Gin, I know,” he said softly.

“You know?” she asked, dumbstruck.

“Of course. Did you really think I wouldn't find out?”

“And you aren't angry?”

“Of course not. It's what you want, right?”

“Well, yes, but -“

“Then it's what I want, too,” he said, and took her in his arms.

She kissed him very tenderly, in a gesture of surrender and gratitude that was but another facet of the complex love they bore each other, feeling more relieved than she could have hoped for.

“Besides, where do you think the one million Galleons donation came from?” Draco asked softly in her ear.

Her eyes widened in shock.

“What? But - no… You?”

He shrugged, elegantly refusing to answer her question, but the self-satisfaction that emanated from him was proof enough. Ginny's eyes welled with tears.

“Do you have any idea what that donation did for our efforts? It particularly ensured us victory!”

Draco kissed his wife soundly on the temple.

“Ah, but you see, victory is but a small price to pay for my wife's happiness.”

She beamed at him; then her eyes twinkled mischievously.

“When I'm done reading this letter, I think you and I should go take a nap,” she whispered.

“I think I'll be donating a lot of Galleons in the near future,” he replied as he went from proud to downright eager.

It amazed Ginny how, even after eight years of marriage and three kids, Draco could still look forward to making love to her. Then again, the way her skin tingled whenever he approached her was proof enough of the physical attraction that bound them tighter than their wedding vows. She turned her eyes back to the letter to avoid dragging him back to the house then and there.

“With this endeavor completed, the harm brought about by my father is, if not erased, at least significantly diminished. Draco and you are the very proof that the havoc wreaked by the war is vanquished and has engendered a generation of wizards that can and will put their ancestors to shame where tolerance, generosity, and cooperation are concerned. (You might want to ask Draco about that. If he pretends not to know what I'm talking about, mention the one million Galleons donation and don't let him pretend that he's innocent.)

So, Ginny, you now have a home, a husband, and four adorable children. That which my father took from you has been, in an admittedly ironic way, returned to you, and though that will not make up for the deaths of those you cherished, it's all you need to be happy. My task in Malfoy Manor is completed, even though, with another boy on the way, you could probably use an extra hand. But I miss my country, and my cousins, and as your need for my help dwindled, theirs has been growing. Wanting to spare us the sadness of goodbyes, I decided to let you and your family head to Chalchiuhtlicue without warning you of my decision. When this owl reaches you, therefore, I will be long gone, probably on my way to Delphi to visit Aunt Narcissa before I head home.

Please don't resent me for leaving this way, but I was never one for emotionally charged moments. Tell Draco that I'll miss his sarcasm and natural propensity to belittle anyone but you. I expect to see all four little Malfoys within the next years, and trust me when I say that I won't let them forget Aunty Ee. I love you, dear Ginny, and will miss you sorely. You have become my sister, and your forgiveness, though our friendship, has allowed me to regain a part of my soul that my father had taken away.

Take care of yourself, and may the stars watch over you.

Izha Merope Ummayyad.”

A fat tear rolled down Ginny's cheek as she read Izha's parting words. She knew that she would see the witch again, but the understanding that she would no longer share her days with the woman came as a shock. She looked at Draco to find him staring intently at her.

“She left,” she said morosely.

He nodded, but Ginny saw the hint of sadness that tinted his gaze.

“I knew she would eventually.”

“She was watching over us.”

“What makes you think we needed watching over us for so long?” he asked, amused. “Other than your political activities with EMB, of course.”

Ginny had the good grace to blush and kissed him. She glanced over to where their children were playing, having been rejoined by Leo, Lorelei, and Faolan. Tonks stood nearby, watching fondly as Blaise, ever the child at heart, helped Nausicaa build sand fortifications despite his son's glare. The twins had teamed up with Faolan and Lorelei to build a fort several feet away and were busy stocking up on balls of wet sand. Leo, Suleiman and Nausicaa stood opposite them, garnering as much ammunition as they could.

“Valerian, I saw you putting a stone in that one!” Ginny bellowed suddenly. “Take it out immediately or you'll have to answer to me!”

Obediently, the fair -haired strategist discarded his projectile.

“Three against four truly isn't fair,” Draco observed.

“Since when are you concerned about fairness?” his wife asked.

“Since my daughter happens to be on the loosing side.”

“But Blaise is helping them.”

“Not if Suli gets his way. Look at him! I think he'd like to defend Nausicaa on his own.” Draco's face grew serious. “I think he and I might need to have a little chat.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Ginny laughed. “He's only seven. Besides,” she added conspiratorially, “I think I may have someone to even the odds.”

Draco raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

“Him,” Ginny said, pointing to her belly.

He looked at her with such wonder then, such ecstatic bewilderment, that her chest tightened with the weight of what that meant to him.

“Him?” he murmured.

She nodded, feeling joy well up inside her. He took her face between his hands as though she were made of crystal - he tended to act like she was whenever she was pregnant - and kissed her with infinite tenderness.

“Get a room!” Blaise snapped, coming to hug Shehzin, who sent him to rinse off as soon as she saw how covered in sand and algae he was.

Ginny laughed and huddled into her husband's arms. With pride, with hope, with joy, they watched their children running along the beach, throwing sand balls at each other under the tropical sun. In silence, they prayed that they would not grow to replace the harmless projectiles with spells, and that the saltiness of tears would never replace that of the sea. But as their cries of joy flew from the seashore, Draco and Ginny knew that the wizarding world would once again rise from its ashes, the perfect environment for the Malfoy family's already immeasurable luck and happiness.

FIN

Author's note

Well guys, it's the end of the road! Thanks for sticking around for so long. Please don't expect a sequel, as there will not be one. I am debating rewriting some parts of this story, but this won't happen until I'm settled in my new home / life and might not be for a while. Should you care for an uber-crazy family tree, and the slightest hint of what could happen post-epilogue, check my livejournal at: http://ogygiasylph.livejournal.com/ . And now, for the moments of gratitude…

BETA READERS

First and foremost, I would like to thank my beta-readers for putting up with me until the end! Though Naycit Malfoy is responsible for the fact that my first set of chapters wasn't utterly ungrammatical, Lyndsie Fenele soon tagged along. This relentless team has allowed for my fics to be published without an outrageous amount of mistakes, and I owe these ladies a lot for that reason. Naycit, Lyndsie, for your corrections but also for your comment, encouragements, questioning, and the digital friendship that, I would like to think, stemmed from these three years of collaboration, I thank you.

READERS

I am incredibly grateful to all the readers who, having appreciated or disagreed with my chapters, took the time to leave a review. Some of you left a review for every single chapter I put out there (including on different fanfiction sites!) while others came up with fewer, more thorough and lengthy reviews. I can safely say that though I began writing this story for a contest (and missed the deadline by, oh, three years), I truly came to enjoy you guys' comments. Whether they were urging me to UPDATE!!! or complimenting me with squees, oohs, and ahs of delight, these reviews have, chapter after chapter, made my day(s). I'd like to address special thanks to the following reviewers for their particular dedication, and apologize if I forgot anyone. Please know that each and every single one of your reviews was important to me - including the ones that corrected my latin or improper assessment of certain cultural details.

www.dracoandginny.com: Moonyk , citrusabby , Bee245, Akt5us, oxymoron8, Frecklesforever, elyaeru, ronlover, felicitas, sweetness150, ZSF, MK Richie, cams_09, nun outfits are cool, WG13, rashonda, Ananyamous, Cathryn Aeiran, dgloves70, That Iz I, Persephone33, dragoncharmer79, Mollie, Marcia, Anya, CCC, spider, Vixenize, KateinVA, Tess, Embellished

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FF.net: GoldenFawkes, Flipinpenname, Shy Susanna Malfoy, HarryPotterFreakEver, DracoGinnylover24, QueenBee11, Disabled-Cloud-Flyer, airlady, Countess Calliope, blissfulxsin, Purple Rainbow, darkroses2992, padfootedmoony, jinda1520, yocum1219, tennisjock, ReignOfSlytherin, LimitedBannerMaker, Athena Linborn

Portkey.org: NicholePotter86, Moogle, jennyberry_84, miss_understood, missmyrtlemay, jc2121, Sailor Universe, Allesandra Thornbird

THE WORLD OF FANFICTION

Let's be honest: who, amongst us, isn't utterly, absolutely, irrevocably enthralled by the world of fanfiction? Six years ago, Schnoogle opened its doors to a story written jointly by two of my friends and myself. The years that fallowed allowed me to discover new sites, new authors, new ships - an entire world of fascinating literature and very generous people. They are the ones I would now like to thank, the ones that have made Harry Potter a possibility and such an amazing outlet for creativity. Many thanks to the moderators of the following websites, for going through the administrative and computerized hassle of keeping fanfiction up and running: www.dracoandginny.com, www.fictionalley.org, www.fanfiction.net, www.portkey.org, www.harrypotterfanfiction.com, www.mugglenet.com

Thanks also to the hundreds of writers who have made fanfiction an acceptable pastime, and such an enjoyable one at that! For sharing your writing, for opening up your hearts and minds to the tons of avid readers like myself, for inspiring us, for showing us that, yes, Dumbledore/Giant Squid is actually a viable pairing, for making us laugh and cry, for having composed epic stories that will never get old, thank you!

A special shout-out to the world of D/G fiction, because the fics about that pairing have made me smile on days when I needed to and what more can one ask for, nowadays? Mynuet, Anise, Jade and Sarea Okelani, Peki, Cinnamonbadge, Tudorrose1533, Sugarbear_1260, Mourning Broken Angel, and all the other phenomenal writers out there, thank you!

JKROWLING

I suppose that, when it comes down to it, I should have begun by thanking Her. For merging mythology and magic with reality, for creating the phenomenal world of Harry Potter and letting us play with its characters, JKR, you are The One as far as I'm concerned!

PS: I'm joking about the Dumbledore/Giant Squid. I have yet to see sufficient character development allowing for that pairing to rank as number #1 in my heart, but who knows?

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