Hesperides' Apple

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.