Painting Her Portrait
Ginevra Weasley was an artist. It was what she did. Drawing. Painting. Acrylics. Oils. Watercolours. Chalk. Charcoal. Pastels. Wax Crayons. Coloured Pencils. Graphite Pencils. Felt Tip Pens. Indian Ink. It was her world, a world where she felt safe and secure, a world where she was in charge…if the sky was to be purple, then purple it would be. Not blue or orange. Purple. Just because it could be.
It started after Tom, when she refused to keep a diary and needed something to record the demons that plagued her, picking up pencil and parchment, she sketched a face. It was hideous and grotesque - the true nature of Tom, the Tom underneath the debonair looks, charms and thick, glossy black hair. But above all, she found a talent. Drawing came naturally. Finally, one thing she didn't have to work at in order to excel. Flying caused her to have to practice; Potions forced her to study hard; Transfiguration was a struggle; Herbology was a bore; Arithimancy was more trouble than the damned subject was worth; History of Magic wasn't worth commenting on; Care of Magical Creatures was enjoyable enough though didn't exactly get her salivating with excitement; Charms was - well, Charms was good, another thing her artistic mind seemed to grasp with ease.
Appearance was yet another thing Ginny had to work on. Her hair was long, reaching her lower back. And it shone many different autumn colours; copper, gold and, the most prominent of all, a dark ruby red. Her body was short, she seemed to have acquired her Mother's height, and very slim, having inherited her Father's build. Her curves were gentle and small. Her overall appearance was angular, hipbones and ribcage jutting out through her pale skin. Her cinnamon coloured freckles more noticeable than ever across her sunken cheeks.
She rarely ate a healthy amount, and when she did eat her fill, often felt sick and bloated. She was a livewire, though, passionate and fiery, a lot more so than anyone gave her credit for, especially since they had all found out her news. She loved running in the rain in a short sleeved T-shirt, just to feel the goose pimples springing up on her milky white flesh, to feel alive as though she were a part of the world around her.
Ginny Weasley now sat in the library, her legs curled beneath her, her sketchpad on her lap. It was mid December, about eight days away from Christmas, and snow was falling in thick, heavy chunks from the sky and settling on the window pane. The sixteen-year-old redhead was fingering at the pages of her drawing pad looking over the many pictures. Harry and Hermione snuggling together, an over-bright happiness seeming to shine through their charcoal eyes. Ron hovering inches above the ground on his new broom. A pregnant Angelina and a post-pregnant Fleur. Sketches of random sixths years she'd eyed during her classes. A picture of Blaise Zabini, Pansy Parkinson and Draco Malfoy the Silver Trio was embellished in the bottom left hand corner, a name Ginny had coined them.
They were so different from Harry, Ron and Hermione - the Golden Trio of Gryffindor. Since finding out her news, Ginny had become a silent watcher. She saw the grace and poise of the Slytherin trio where the Gryffindor three would bumble and trip. Whereas her brother, Hermione, and Harry had wholesome good looks that would probably fade with age, the Slytherins had a glacial beauty. High cheek bones, creamy smooth skin and large, opulent eyes; Pansy's a dark, stormy blue, Draco's a deep charcoal grey and Blaise's a hypnotizing amber.
On the final page of Ginny's sketchpad was a half finished portrait of herself. You could tell it was Ginny. Anyone who looked at the picture would have gasped at the likeness the young woman had drawn of herself, down to the last freckle. The picture was identical to her, and yet it was still only half finished. It wasn't her. Ginny wanted a portrait that was really her that showed her for what she was. Not her high cheek bones or plump lips. Not for her delicate nose and deep chocolate eyes. She wanted Ginny inside and out before it was too late. Before there was not enough of her left to make a portrait from.
A photograph couldn't be relied on. Photos show one moving moment in time. Ginny wanted every moment of her life to be engrained in the portrait. She wanted everyone who saw it to know what kind of person she had been and how she'd lived her life. She wanted people to see the fire she felt burning beneath the surface, because nobody had seen her since that fatal day in the middle of July.
They'd seen the disease. The ailment. The cancerous tumour that loomed in her skull and had treated her as though she were carved from glass ever since. From this day, Ginny had only ten weeks to complete her portrait. Seventy days, in which to prove her talent as an artist. One thousand, six hundred and eighty hours to scream to the world she wasn't yet dead. And one million, eight hundred minutes to live life like no one was watching. For Ginny Weasley had only ten weeks left to finish her portrait.