Hesperides' Apple

"And what would these ties be without love? A vile and mercenary pact, a shameful trade of wealth and titles, which imprisons only the individuals, leaving their hearts to the chaos of desperation and despite." --Marquis de Sade, Aline et Valcour

May, 1998

London, England.

The sun had set, allowing for clouds of anthracite gray to shroud everything in shadows. They were all here, their rich, fluid black robes denoting 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 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 Draco, 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 English 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 twirled 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. As the mourners left in silence, dark-flowered rose-trees grew, their wiry trunks twisting and peaking into spikes, 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-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 escaped from Narcissa's lips.

"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 smile 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 speaking 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..." Draco forced himself to say, though the words brought back a painful memory.

"They're 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. "There is an agency your father's sister told me about a while ago. Apparently, 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. Pick a few women. 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 silver sparks 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.

The magic took Hermione Granger directly to a barely-lit alley of Muggle London. Few would have willingly wandered in the dark, dead-end street littered with rubbish bags and half-burnt tires, and so it made for a perfectly inconspicuous Apparition point. Hermione tucked her wand into the pocket of her robes, her mind reeling with the implications of what she had just witnessed. It would be an exaggeration to claim that by the time she reached the more frequented avenue she had formed a plan; but the walk to her flat granted her the few, necessary, additional minutes that lead to the finalization of what seconds earlier had been little more than a confusing mass of information.

As Hermione climbed the stairs toward her apartment, the details became clearer, imprinting themselves with a startling clarity. She muttered a quick spell to ensure that she hadn't been followed and another that confirmed the identity of her sole visitor, then she inserted her key in the lock and opened the door to her flat. She wasn't surprised to find her friend where she had left her in the morning, curled up on the couch, eyes wide open and lashes thick with dried tears. Hermione knew better than to sigh, or comment, or complain about the other woman's attitude. She had been here for a month, so deeply drowned in her own sorrow that she had acquired the eerily immutable beauty of sunken ships: to say that she was a wreck would have been a euphemism, for there was no way to adequately describe this ghastly, broken creature, destroyed by the horrors of a night and tortured by the unyielding currents of memory.

"Ginny," Hermione said softly. "Ginny, I found a way. We can have justice, but I need your help."

And for the first time since the night both their worlds had come crumbling down, a hint of life flared in Ginevra Weasley's eyes.

***

Sofia, Bulgaria.

The Vitosha mountains sprawled lazily in the afternoon sun. Ginny casually strolled across the Slaveykov Square, peering at the worn books and fresh flowers offered by vendors. She easily found the house she was looking for, and checked her coiffure in a hand-mirror one last time before climbing the stairs to the newly painted wooden door.

I wish Hermione hadn't forced me to dye my hair blond, Ginny thought morosely, though she understood how detrimental to her endeavor it would be to brandish the Weasley hair.

Only 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 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 words sharp with a faint accent. 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 Kotsarov, disappeared in the attending room. A tea kettle and cups materialized on the painted-wood table. Minutes flew. Eventually, Mrs. Kotsarov came back, apologizing for the delay. Ginny poured them both some tea as Mrs. Kotsarov began.

"I have examined your credentials. As the sole, of-age 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.

"However, you must be irreproachable. In that respect, we can 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 Kotsarov's smile remained plastered on her face as she nodded.

"Given the recent, er--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!" Kotsarov screeched with relief. Ginny smiled gratefully, lowering her lashes in an appreciative and, she hoped, modest mimic.

"Now that this is settled, we must waste no time in preparing you. Katia!" Kotsarov 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 Kotsarov conjured a quill with which she observed, "Knows how to deal with children."

***

Malfoy Manor, England.

Draco Malfoy sat in an armchair in his study, enjoying June's last cozy warm nights. In his hand, Narcissa's letter informed him of her latest occupations; she had decided to retire in Delphi 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.

***

Sofia, Bulgaria.

Ginny pulled out a framed picture of her family and placed it on her night-table. She arranged a few books and a potted orange tree around her room, fitting her meager possessions easily in the periwinkle closets and drawers. Once this was done, Ginny glanced around. A delicate "poof" made her start; a note had appeared on her pillow, inviting her to dinner at eight. It was four. She pulled out a black-and-white photograph from her bag. 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, feeling an odd emptiness in the pit of her stomach; determination, more so than the month spent crying, prevented further tears. She placed the picture back on the night table, and mentally reviewed the elements that would make her Hesperides' Apples most sought-after inmate.

***

Delphi, Greece.

Narcissa Malfoy, lounging on a reclining chair in her little house by Delphi, counted the third week without an answer from her son and considered sending a Howler. The emerald-green mountains and mirror-like lakes in their bosom managed to appease her impatience, however. She eventually decided in favor of a polite letter, urging him to contact the matrimonial agency, offering to do so herself if he would just give her a list of characteristics he would like his wife to have. 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 and fulfill his late father's most ambitious expectations.

***

Sofia, Bulgaria.

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. Friendship quickly appeared to be a hazardous operation. 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. The mirror in her bathroom confirmed that she was ready for the photographs, claiming that the late Tsarina Natasha Adroviechki hadn't looked this regal even on her coronation day.

During the following days, Ginny Weasley underwent the most vapid, albeit necessary, transformation of her life. Kotsarov, 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 the 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 choose to try, she could be startlingly attractive, a fact that had never troubled her before. It pleased her to discover this additional tool.

***

Malfoy Manor, England.

Draco Malfoy waved his wand. The holographic image of the scrumptious blonde was followed by that of another whose assets were quite noticeable.

"Angelina Ilidov, eighteen years old. Descendant of the wizard King of Lithuania--the one who was overthrown a few hundred years ago--likes dancing and geology. Home schooled," Narcissa, seated in a loveseat, read from a parchment. "Won a few horseback-riding and ice-skating competitions."

Draco smiled, oblivious to his mother's words, and had the woman's image rotate, observed her curves from every possible angle, then decided she was too much like the ones before her. He swished his wand and barely suppressed 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.

"Ginevra Vassil, seventeen years old. Interested in fine arts and literature, as well as, to a lesser extent, plants. It says here that her scores with children by far surpass the others'," Narcissa noted, though she was well aware Draco couldn't care less. "Apparently, she is the direct great-grand-daughter of Vassilissa Vassil--if I recall correctly she was a princess or tsarina of some sort..."

Draco, having assessed the young woman's body, moved on to her face, and was hit by a mixed feeling of affection and defiance. Throwing a quick glance to Narcissa, head bent over the girl's description, he understood: on the one hand, she looked somewhat like his mother, at least in the elegance of her posture and sharpness of features, and that 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.

"What do you think of her?"

Narcissa lifted her head up, surprised, and didn't have time to hide the appreciation in her eyes. It was painfully clear to Draco that the girl must have been one of his mother's prime choices. Noncommittally, Narcissa shrugged.

"Take a look at the other ones, and if she still is your favorite, you can have her."

***

Sofia, Bulgaria.

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 of Great Britain, had not been able to become Medi-witch as she had hoped, and was instead an accountant in the American branch of the London Bank. Remembering the summers enjoyed together, the years spent in studious proximity, and the months of shared distress over 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 spent in the ballroom. Her annoyance never dwindled.

"Miss Vassil."

Ginny interrupted the dance, curtsied to her ghost cavalier, and followed Kotsarov out of the room. She was once again led 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," Kotsarov 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."

Kotsarov 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. Kotsarov 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."

Kotsarov 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, which pretty much authorized Kotsarov 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 Kotsarov'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."

Kotsarov 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 Kotsarov'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 he is to meet you, we will see how much you are given to begin with, 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 Kotsarov'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 Kotsarov would have had her master.

They came back from France and Italy laden with dresses, hats, pants, jackets, capes, shoes, and, of course, a various assortment 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 Kotsarov'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," Hera Kotsarov said sternly.

"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 Kotsarov and whichever tradition of the trade would grant her such a valuable gift. Kotsarov clapped her hands. Katia appeared.

"Katia, wand please."

From Katia's belly emerged 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 announced. "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."

Kotsarov 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 Kotsarov.

"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 currently expected. A Portkey has arrived this morning by owl. You may leave whenever you feel like it."

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

"A sapphire. The first of many gifts to come. Now farewell, Ginevra Vassil, and good luck."

Without further ado, Hera Kotsarov stepped out of her office and possibly out of Ginny's life. Ginny summoned her belongings to the room, where they formed a neat little pile. She shrunk it, subsequently placing it in her robe pocket. At last she took the stone in her hand, feeling the familiar tug at her navel as she vanished toward Malfoy Manor.