Chapter 13
The Challenge
The sudden shock and unexpected pain of Narcissa’s announcement struck Ginny like a slap across the face. Fiancé! Surely Narcissa was lying…or joking…or she had simply misheard! Her brown eyes cast rather desperately toward her sponsor, but Mrs. Malfoy’s lips were hidden entirely by her teacup, though Ginny thought she could make out a glitter in the jewel-bright eyes.
Fiancé!
The word seemed to ricochet inside her head, smarting afresh every time that it struck.
His fiancé!
“Is something wrong, Ginevra?” Narcissa had set down the teacup. She dabbed gingerly at her lips with the linen napkin.
Ginny searched her face, still looking for evidence of a lie, or some other sign that this was an awful mistake. It was not unlike when she was a girl, awaiting the denouement of another of Fred and George’s barbaric pranks.
There was no exploding wand, however, and in spite of all Ginny’s frantic wishes, Miss Fougere did not turn into a yellow canary. This was real.
Well, why should I care? She asked herself sullenly. Her fingers twisted in her lap. Ignorant, insensitive git! It serves him right. No! It’s better than he deserves- his Daddy probably bought this one. She raised her chin, determined to appear unaffected, but inside it was a losing battle. Draco. ENGAGED! Had she never meant anything at all then? Was a quick snog in the Astronomy tower the only thing that she had ever meant to be?
Recalling a few of the more memorable of those snogs, the look of unaffected superiority on her face became slightly more sincere. She turned her gaze to Genevieve, wishing that her eyes were capable of shooting firebolts in the other girl’s direction. For her part, the French girl looked insufferably smug. She was twining a plump brown curl around her index finger as she listened to her mother continue to flatter Mrs. Malfoy.
“But your skin eet looks so byoo-tee-ful!” Odile gushed. “Zee color. Ees eet a charme?”
“A tan.” Narcissa replied. “Mr. Malfoy and I have been in the islands.”
“A tan?” Mrs. Fougere recoiled. “Oh, no! Zees ees not good! Zee sun ees terrible for your skin!”
“Better than prison.” Narcissa’s lips curled up on the edges and she narrowed her eyes, putting Ginny in mind of a cat, toying with its prey.
Mrs. Fougere was, unsurprisingly, wrong-footed by the embarrassingly frank reply. “Er….yes.” She managed after a few false starts. “Which islands? Oh, you must come to Capri, I was theenking- for zee wedding.”
“It’s a bit premature for that, don’t you think?” Narcissa countered evenly, and Ginny’s heart gave a little flutter of hope. “After all, Draco can still change his mind.”
“Change his mind?”
For a moment, Ginny was terrified that she had actually spoken aloud. She was relieved to realize that it had, in actuality, been the Fougeres protesting in unison.
“You know how the contract works. Nothing is final until Draco turns twenty. If he hasn’t made a choice by then, a choice has been made for him, otherwise…” Narcissa let her voice trail off, but cast her eyes around the table. Ginny followed them: The Mrs. Fougere looking indignant, Miss Fougere looking annoyed, and the Spellmans looking as if they desperately wished to be somewhere else. Narcissa seemed to enjoy the discomfort of the rest of the table. She allowed the silence to linger painfully as she took another sip of tea, dabbed her lips once more, and then turned to her left. “I say, Odile, I’ve been remiss! Have you met Ginevra Weasley? She’s Draco’s… special friend.”
Brown eyes met Black. Genevieve’s lips spread into a thin, joyless smile, and the French girl gave Ginny a look that required no interpretation. Miss Weasley felt life return to her body as she met the unspoken challenge. Her mouth curled into a smile of its own.
The game was on.
The tension between the two girls was palpable as Narcissa began merrily chattering about something else- robes or houses, or the islands she and Lucius had visited while on the lam. A bell chimed, and the ladies who were still loitering around the room hurried to take their seats. Mrs. Greengrass stood and offered a quick greeting and then, with another tinkle of the bell, Lunch appeared on the plates before them.
It was salmon salad- an artful but rather insubstantial arrangement of fish and various greens. Ginny was vaguely disappointed not to be served anything requiring the use of a knife- then again, she assumed these ladies had been through the Debutante Introduction Luncheon several times before.
Ginny wasn’t paying much attention. She was too busy drinking in every detail about her rival.
Rival?
Where did that word come from? Ginny frowned at herself for a moment, but she quickly assuaged herself with the notion that, whether she cared about Draco or not (and she didn’t, lousy, lying, insufferable git!) , little Miss Frenchie Pants clearly needed taken down a notch or two. She stabbed her fork viciously into the salad, ignoring Narcissa’s wince.
“Didn’t your mother ever teach you how to eat, properly?” Genevieve said in a syrupy tone too low to be overheard by the other occupants of the table. She arranged her own eating utensils carefully. She cut a tiny lettuce leaf in half, lifted it gently on the tines of her fork, then popped it into her rosebud mouth. As Ginny continued to chew sullenly, she pushed the plate away, set her napkin beside it, and said a little louder. “Oh, dear. I’m so full. I couldn’t eat another bite.”
Ginny scowled.
“My mother taught my not to waste good food.”
Genevieve smiled sweetly. “I don’t believe I’ve met your mother.” She made a show of looking around the room. “Is she here?”
Before Ginny could answer, the bell chimed again, and the chatter in the room abruptly hushed. Without a word, Narcissa quietly excused herself from the table, taking her place in a chair set on a small platform at the front of the room, next to a row of other posh, superior-looking witches. Ginny did not know all of their names but, the few she recognized had been described to her as members of the Deb Ball Organizing committee.
Mrs. Greengrass was one of them, and she walked to a small dais, whispered a sonorous charm over the tip of her wand, and then spoke, the spell amplifying her voice so that it was heard easily throughout the room, “Greetings once again, ladies. I hope that you enjoyed your lunch. As you know, today marks the beginning of an important time in your lives. Each of you has been selected, by your sponsors, to be presented this summer at the Daughters of Hecate Debutante Ball. This is a rare privilege, granted only to pureblood girls of impeccable lineage, deportment and ability…”
Ginny only half-listened to their hostess’s speech about the history and importance of the ball, letting her eyes roam the packed ballroom, taking in the faces and expressions of the other girls.
“Now, to explain more about your duties during the forthcoming weeks, I present to you Madam Mynuet Rodriguez de Orellana, chairwoman of the development committee.”
There was a polite round of applause that reminded Ginny of the sound of fish frying in oil, and another woman replaced Mrs. Greengrass at the podium.
Mme. Rodriguez de Orellana was rather stern looking witch with handsome features and steel-grey hair pulled from her temples into a severe bun. She carried a cane, although she didn’t appear to need assistance walking. It had a long, ebony shaft, topped with a crystal ball. She whacked it against the podium before she began to speak, apparently signifying that she demanded silence- even though she had already captured the undivided attention of every person in the room. Even the other committee members were sitting a little straighter in their seats as she began to speak.
She did not dwell on ceremony, sweeping the room with a glare that implied none of the girls present worthy to lick her boots she began without prelude, “You puling little princesses think that you know how to behave like ladies.” She growled, and there was a collective gasp of shock.
The surprise seemed pleasing to Madame de Orellana, and her thin lips curled upwards as she continued. “You pampered little featherheads think you know how to run a household. You cosseted little BABIES think that you know how to survive in society.” She paused for dramatic effect. “You think wrong.”
The silence that had filled the room when she took the stage grew even more pronounced as she continued. “The next eight weeks might sound like fun: Parties, dinners, dancing…but don’t be fooled. The next eight weeks aren’t meant to be about fun. They’re meant to be about education. They’re meant to be about discipline. They’re meant to be about perfection…and being perfected is never fun.”
Ginny felt a shiver run along her spine, forgetting for a moment that the woman was talking about parties and not anything that was really a matter of life and death.
“Over the next eight weeks you’ll know what it’s like to be hungry sitting in a room of delicious food. You’ll dance until your feet bleed and you’ll smile until your rosy cheeks ache. If you aren’t crying at the end of every night then I’ll know I haven’t done my job. Not all of you are going to survive…” She paused for a moment, savoring the bleak prediction. “Look across the table.” Obediently, Ginny’s eyes met Genevieve’s. “One of girls at your table isn’t going to make it…will it be YOU?” She jabbed her cane at a blonde-haired young lady at the closest table, who promptly burst into tears. Smiling ferally, she moved her attention elsewhere, to Pansy Parkinson’s table. “Will it be YOU?”
Pansy held her chin up high.
Ginny felt the hawk-like eyes burn across her own skin as they lingered on the table where she sat. “WILL IT BE YOU?” She boomed.
There was a moment of uncomfortable silence as the question echoed throughout the room.
Finally, almost grudgingly, she continued. “A few of you…a VERY few will endure.”
Madame de Orellana twisted her lips as though she were chewing on something-probably the bones of last-year’s victims, Ginny thought.
“Some of you may even thrive…and one of you…” Her voice grew suddenly soft, causing the entire audience to lean forward in their seats. “ONE of you will be deemed worthy to wear this.”
There was a collective gasp of awe (and one or two witches who ducked) as Madame de Orellana drew her wand from her cane with a flourish and swished it in the air. A box on the ground beside her opened, and a diamond crown floated from it to hover above the crowd.
A magical glow surrounded the tiara, causing the jeweled facets to sparkle in the light as it slowly rotated, and then flew a slow circle around the room. Even Ginny was captivated by the sight.
“What is it?” She said to no-one in particular.
Genevieve rolled her eyes. “It’s the crown for the Debutante of the Year, of course.” She said with undisguised disgust.
“You mean…they give out one of those every year?”
Genevieve scoffed. “They don’t ‘give them out’- the winner of the Debutante of the Year holds the crown until she is succeeded…” She gestured airily at a gorgeous brunette sitting in the same row of chairs as Narcissa. “That’s Scarlette Shankland…” She whispered, “Last year’s winner.”
Ginny nodded her head. “How do they pick who wins?”
She was answered by cruel laughter from Odile, “I hardly theenk that theese ees sometheeng your should worry about.” She said haughtily.
“Oh?” Ginny felt her skin burn as brightly as her hair, “And why is that?”
Mrs. Fougere waved her hand dismissively. “Everyone knows that my Genevieve weel be zee weener. Eet ees a Malfoy wife tradition, ees eet not?”
Genevieve preened. “Both Narcissa and the elder Mrs. Malfoy were crowned deb queens.” She said sweetly. “I’ve a tradition to uphold.”
“I wouldn’t be so smug if I were you.” Ginny said darkly, suddenly more intent on beating Genevieve than she had ever been on anything in her life.
“Oh, I don’t think I have to worry.” She made a show of buffing her nails on her sleeve. Her full lips curved into a smirk, "Que le meilleur gagne!" She whispered in challenge.
Ginny didn’t speak French, but the words needed no interpretation.
May the best woman win indeed!
The Challenge
The sudden shock and unexpected pain of Narcissa’s announcement struck Ginny like a slap across the face. Fiancé! Surely Narcissa was lying…or joking…or she had simply misheard! Her brown eyes cast rather desperately toward her sponsor, but Mrs. Malfoy’s lips were hidden entirely by her teacup, though Ginny thought she could make out a glitter in the jewel-bright eyes.
Fiancé!
The word seemed to ricochet inside her head, smarting afresh every time that it struck.
His fiancé!
“Is something wrong, Ginevra?” Narcissa had set down the teacup. She dabbed gingerly at her lips with the linen napkin.
Ginny searched her face, still looking for evidence of a lie, or some other sign that this was an awful mistake. It was not unlike when she was a girl, awaiting the denouement of another of Fred and George’s barbaric pranks.
There was no exploding wand, however, and in spite of all Ginny’s frantic wishes, Miss Fougere did not turn into a yellow canary. This was real.
Well, why should I care? She asked herself sullenly. Her fingers twisted in her lap. Ignorant, insensitive git! It serves him right. No! It’s better than he deserves- his Daddy probably bought this one. She raised her chin, determined to appear unaffected, but inside it was a losing battle. Draco. ENGAGED! Had she never meant anything at all then? Was a quick snog in the Astronomy tower the only thing that she had ever meant to be?
Recalling a few of the more memorable of those snogs, the look of unaffected superiority on her face became slightly more sincere. She turned her gaze to Genevieve, wishing that her eyes were capable of shooting firebolts in the other girl’s direction. For her part, the French girl looked insufferably smug. She was twining a plump brown curl around her index finger as she listened to her mother continue to flatter Mrs. Malfoy.
“But your skin eet looks so byoo-tee-ful!” Odile gushed. “Zee color. Ees eet a charme?”
“A tan.” Narcissa replied. “Mr. Malfoy and I have been in the islands.”
“A tan?” Mrs. Fougere recoiled. “Oh, no! Zees ees not good! Zee sun ees terrible for your skin!”
“Better than prison.” Narcissa’s lips curled up on the edges and she narrowed her eyes, putting Ginny in mind of a cat, toying with its prey.
Mrs. Fougere was, unsurprisingly, wrong-footed by the embarrassingly frank reply. “Er….yes.” She managed after a few false starts. “Which islands? Oh, you must come to Capri, I was theenking- for zee wedding.”
“It’s a bit premature for that, don’t you think?” Narcissa countered evenly, and Ginny’s heart gave a little flutter of hope. “After all, Draco can still change his mind.”
“Change his mind?”
For a moment, Ginny was terrified that she had actually spoken aloud. She was relieved to realize that it had, in actuality, been the Fougeres protesting in unison.
“You know how the contract works. Nothing is final until Draco turns twenty. If he hasn’t made a choice by then, a choice has been made for him, otherwise…” Narcissa let her voice trail off, but cast her eyes around the table. Ginny followed them: The Mrs. Fougere looking indignant, Miss Fougere looking annoyed, and the Spellmans looking as if they desperately wished to be somewhere else. Narcissa seemed to enjoy the discomfort of the rest of the table. She allowed the silence to linger painfully as she took another sip of tea, dabbed her lips once more, and then turned to her left. “I say, Odile, I’ve been remiss! Have you met Ginevra Weasley? She’s Draco’s… special friend.”
Brown eyes met Black. Genevieve’s lips spread into a thin, joyless smile, and the French girl gave Ginny a look that required no interpretation. Miss Weasley felt life return to her body as she met the unspoken challenge. Her mouth curled into a smile of its own.
The game was on.
The tension between the two girls was palpable as Narcissa began merrily chattering about something else- robes or houses, or the islands she and Lucius had visited while on the lam. A bell chimed, and the ladies who were still loitering around the room hurried to take their seats. Mrs. Greengrass stood and offered a quick greeting and then, with another tinkle of the bell, Lunch appeared on the plates before them.
It was salmon salad- an artful but rather insubstantial arrangement of fish and various greens. Ginny was vaguely disappointed not to be served anything requiring the use of a knife- then again, she assumed these ladies had been through the Debutante Introduction Luncheon several times before.
Ginny wasn’t paying much attention. She was too busy drinking in every detail about her rival.
Rival?
Where did that word come from? Ginny frowned at herself for a moment, but she quickly assuaged herself with the notion that, whether she cared about Draco or not (and she didn’t, lousy, lying, insufferable git!) , little Miss Frenchie Pants clearly needed taken down a notch or two. She stabbed her fork viciously into the salad, ignoring Narcissa’s wince.
“Didn’t your mother ever teach you how to eat, properly?” Genevieve said in a syrupy tone too low to be overheard by the other occupants of the table. She arranged her own eating utensils carefully. She cut a tiny lettuce leaf in half, lifted it gently on the tines of her fork, then popped it into her rosebud mouth. As Ginny continued to chew sullenly, she pushed the plate away, set her napkin beside it, and said a little louder. “Oh, dear. I’m so full. I couldn’t eat another bite.”
Ginny scowled.
“My mother taught my not to waste good food.”
Genevieve smiled sweetly. “I don’t believe I’ve met your mother.” She made a show of looking around the room. “Is she here?”
Before Ginny could answer, the bell chimed again, and the chatter in the room abruptly hushed. Without a word, Narcissa quietly excused herself from the table, taking her place in a chair set on a small platform at the front of the room, next to a row of other posh, superior-looking witches. Ginny did not know all of their names but, the few she recognized had been described to her as members of the Deb Ball Organizing committee.
Mrs. Greengrass was one of them, and she walked to a small dais, whispered a sonorous charm over the tip of her wand, and then spoke, the spell amplifying her voice so that it was heard easily throughout the room, “Greetings once again, ladies. I hope that you enjoyed your lunch. As you know, today marks the beginning of an important time in your lives. Each of you has been selected, by your sponsors, to be presented this summer at the Daughters of Hecate Debutante Ball. This is a rare privilege, granted only to pureblood girls of impeccable lineage, deportment and ability…”
Ginny only half-listened to their hostess’s speech about the history and importance of the ball, letting her eyes roam the packed ballroom, taking in the faces and expressions of the other girls.
“Now, to explain more about your duties during the forthcoming weeks, I present to you Madam Mynuet Rodriguez de Orellana, chairwoman of the development committee.”
There was a polite round of applause that reminded Ginny of the sound of fish frying in oil, and another woman replaced Mrs. Greengrass at the podium.
Mme. Rodriguez de Orellana was rather stern looking witch with handsome features and steel-grey hair pulled from her temples into a severe bun. She carried a cane, although she didn’t appear to need assistance walking. It had a long, ebony shaft, topped with a crystal ball. She whacked it against the podium before she began to speak, apparently signifying that she demanded silence- even though she had already captured the undivided attention of every person in the room. Even the other committee members were sitting a little straighter in their seats as she began to speak.
She did not dwell on ceremony, sweeping the room with a glare that implied none of the girls present worthy to lick her boots she began without prelude, “You puling little princesses think that you know how to behave like ladies.” She growled, and there was a collective gasp of shock.
The surprise seemed pleasing to Madame de Orellana, and her thin lips curled upwards as she continued. “You pampered little featherheads think you know how to run a household. You cosseted little BABIES think that you know how to survive in society.” She paused for dramatic effect. “You think wrong.”
The silence that had filled the room when she took the stage grew even more pronounced as she continued. “The next eight weeks might sound like fun: Parties, dinners, dancing…but don’t be fooled. The next eight weeks aren’t meant to be about fun. They’re meant to be about education. They’re meant to be about discipline. They’re meant to be about perfection…and being perfected is never fun.”
Ginny felt a shiver run along her spine, forgetting for a moment that the woman was talking about parties and not anything that was really a matter of life and death.
“Over the next eight weeks you’ll know what it’s like to be hungry sitting in a room of delicious food. You’ll dance until your feet bleed and you’ll smile until your rosy cheeks ache. If you aren’t crying at the end of every night then I’ll know I haven’t done my job. Not all of you are going to survive…” She paused for a moment, savoring the bleak prediction. “Look across the table.” Obediently, Ginny’s eyes met Genevieve’s. “One of girls at your table isn’t going to make it…will it be YOU?” She jabbed her cane at a blonde-haired young lady at the closest table, who promptly burst into tears. Smiling ferally, she moved her attention elsewhere, to Pansy Parkinson’s table. “Will it be YOU?”
Pansy held her chin up high.
Ginny felt the hawk-like eyes burn across her own skin as they lingered on the table where she sat. “WILL IT BE YOU?” She boomed.
There was a moment of uncomfortable silence as the question echoed throughout the room.
Finally, almost grudgingly, she continued. “A few of you…a VERY few will endure.”
Madame de Orellana twisted her lips as though she were chewing on something-probably the bones of last-year’s victims, Ginny thought.
“Some of you may even thrive…and one of you…” Her voice grew suddenly soft, causing the entire audience to lean forward in their seats. “ONE of you will be deemed worthy to wear this.”
There was a collective gasp of awe (and one or two witches who ducked) as Madame de Orellana drew her wand from her cane with a flourish and swished it in the air. A box on the ground beside her opened, and a diamond crown floated from it to hover above the crowd.
A magical glow surrounded the tiara, causing the jeweled facets to sparkle in the light as it slowly rotated, and then flew a slow circle around the room. Even Ginny was captivated by the sight.
“What is it?” She said to no-one in particular.
Genevieve rolled her eyes. “It’s the crown for the Debutante of the Year, of course.” She said with undisguised disgust.
“You mean…they give out one of those every year?”
Genevieve scoffed. “They don’t ‘give them out’- the winner of the Debutante of the Year holds the crown until she is succeeded…” She gestured airily at a gorgeous brunette sitting in the same row of chairs as Narcissa. “That’s Scarlette Shankland…” She whispered, “Last year’s winner.”
Ginny nodded her head. “How do they pick who wins?”
She was answered by cruel laughter from Odile, “I hardly theenk that theese ees sometheeng your should worry about.” She said haughtily.
“Oh?” Ginny felt her skin burn as brightly as her hair, “And why is that?”
Mrs. Fougere waved her hand dismissively. “Everyone knows that my Genevieve weel be zee weener. Eet ees a Malfoy wife tradition, ees eet not?”
Genevieve preened. “Both Narcissa and the elder Mrs. Malfoy were crowned deb queens.” She said sweetly. “I’ve a tradition to uphold.”
“I wouldn’t be so smug if I were you.” Ginny said darkly, suddenly more intent on beating Genevieve than she had ever been on anything in her life.
“Oh, I don’t think I have to worry.” She made a show of buffing her nails on her sleeve. Her full lips curved into a smirk, "Que le meilleur gagne!" She whispered in challenge.
Ginny didn’t speak French, but the words needed no interpretation.
May the best woman win indeed!
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