Hesperides' Apple

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! Relinquish