Painting Her Portrait
WEEK ONE: - "Popping Potions, Weasley?"
It was a Sunday evening and Ginny found herself once more located in the library, right at the back, beside a large stained glass window that was often, she thought, over looked, due to the fact it let in a bit of a draft. However, she loved to sit here as the over-bright autumn sunlight beamed through it at this moment in time. Just as dusk was settling the colours seemed to become muted, like the embers of a dying fire. On her lap lay a thick book she was using to lean on and a long sheaf of parchment; on the arm of her chair, precariously placed, was a bottle of red ink and in her hand a tatty old quill she refused to get rid of. Ginevra Weasley had become attached to little, inconsequential objects. She always had been, though this quirk seemed to have intensified since hearing her news - after all, she had no time to become attached to something or someone important.
For the past hour and a half she'd been writing her History of Magic essay, and had so far written two paragraphs of complete waffle and drawn a picture of a second year girl who'd sat a few desks in front of her, her energy as her quill flew across her paper captured perfectly in the over-bright eyes Ginny had sketched. She'd also taken to drawing a labyrinth of swirls around the image of the girl. She'd start this essay again tomorrow, hopefully with more focus and determination; it'd just been a bad day today. She had them sometimes - not often - but if she thought on one thing too much she began to feel nostalgic and a little self pitying, and began questioning someone who wasn't there with questions she knew had no definite answer, such as: why her? What had she done to deserve it? But these questions only induced depression, and Ginny decided that if she only had a little time to live she would not spend it fretting and upset.
Snap!
The nib of her quill had broken off. Angrily, she tossed it on the floor. She was fuming. She hadn't been concentrating. Bloody self pity. Bloody tumour. Bloody quill. A searing pain zipped across the back of her head. Time for medication. Tersely, she snatched up her bag from the floor and rooted through it forcefully in search of her vial of potion; she really had been avoiding taking it today. If she was truthful, she should have taken it about two hours previously, before letting it reach the point where it hurt her that much; she just hated it. Her hand curled around a cube shaped glass bottle and she pulled it out of the depths of her brown leather bag - the one she'd had for so very long the one she'd fallen in love with in a Muggle second-hand shop, the one that looked as though it'd fallen out of another time era - another possession she was very fond of.
She yanked at the cork but it wouldn't come; it was stuck fast; she attempted biting it out with her teeth, but the pressure that was being applied to it simply hurt her head more, and the prickles in the base of her skull intensified a bit. She felt disorientated; in frustration she threw the vial to floor emitting a sound that was a half way between a growl and shriek, which of course also sounded slightly strangled as she didn't want to be kicked out of the library for disrupting the peace. Luckily Madame Pince heard nothing, or if she did she said nothing. Someone she did happen to catch the attention of, though, was a tall, blond, Slytherin seventh year: Draco Malfoy. His head sprouted from the side of a nearby bookcase and he watched as Ginny swooped to the floor, grasping her head and scrabbling about looking for, he assumed, the bottle that had just rolled in his direction and was resting against the toe of his highly polished shoe.
Gracefully, he knelt to the floor and plucked up the potion bottle. It was filled with a milky white-blue solution. Ginny looked up and her eyes caught his gaze; he slowly stood erect once more, looking down at her. After regaining her senses and taking a few deep, steadying breaths she too rose to her feet.
"Popping Potions, Weasley?" smirked the blonde.
"Shut up, Malfoy, and give it here," she hissed. His grin was infuriating at the best of times, but now, while in pain and while her vision was becoming slightly hazy and knowing he was holding a bottle of elixir that would stop her symptoms instantly.
"Nah, don't think I will, Weaslette. I mean, I knew your life was tough, but reverting to illicit potions in the back of the library? Tsk, tsk, what would your brother think?"
"I dare say he'd think the same as me; that you are an over grown ferrety bastard whose nose should stick out of other people's business!"
"Language, missy. Now, I do wonder how you managed to pay for this?" His silky baritone voice pronounced each word with great care, and with each utterance his tone became more unbearable to her ears, the ringing in her head intensifying tenfold. "Surely you're not becoming a, what is it your brother calls them, a 'Scarlet Woman'?"
She was fuming. "Malfoy, shut the hell up and give me my potion or I tell you, I'm gonna. . ." The wooziness hit her hard, and suddenly she felt winded and fell back onto her seat, the sound of crumpled parchment as she landed on her essay-cum-sketch.
"Aw, is the icklest Weasley in over her head?"
"You know what, screw you, Malfoy!" She attempted to stand. "Why don't you just give me what's mine and leave me alone." The redhead was yelling now, and Madame Pince was steaming down from the front desk to investigate.
"Finders keepers, Weasley."
"I'm serious Malfoy; I need it."
"Ooh, desperate for a fix, eh?"
She couldn't hold on any longer, the heat; the pain, the disorientation, the noise; her legs crumpled and the world was all of a sudden non-existent to Ginny Weasley. Draco's mouth was agape. He pocketed the bottle and bent beside her, just as the librarian turned the corner and saw the scene before her. "Mr Malfoy! Take her up to the Hospital Wing immediately!" He felt guilty, but also had his pride to look after; he couldn't be seen taking a Weasley to Madame Pomfrey. "I said immediately, Draco! Now!" The use of his first name shocked him beyond comprehension; clearly Madame Pince was incredibly worried about her number one Library goer - seriously, he was sure the redhead frequented this place more times than even Granger.
He scooped her up in his arms so she laid bridal style in his grasp. She was so light - not that he expected much more from the wisp of a girl - but still, her lack of weight shocked him. "Quickly now! I'll take her things up later."
He hurriedly left the room, Ginny in his arms, her hair cascading down, her face paler than even his; he was sure, people in the library were still staring at the closing doors or at where Madame Pince, in her vulture-like way, was stalking back up to the front desk with all of Ginny Weasley's belongings. The heavy little bottle weighed even heavier in Draco's pocket and also on his conscience - oh yes, there was one in there somewhere - maybe she really had needed it? Don't be ridiculous, he told himself, the girl just got far too wound up and that place was rather warm, and she had been wearing that thick cloak.
He walked backwards through the hospital doors, his back pushing them open as he had no hands free and didn't particularly want to bash Ginny into them to open them and gain entrance, as she was the reason he needed to enter the Hospital Wing in the first place. Madame Pomfrey seemed to appear from nowhere, dashing straight at Draco. "On the bed, Mr Malfoy, the one near the window; quickly now." He placed her on the allocated bed, and stepped back, or, more accurately, was thrust out of the way by the bustling matron. Moments later her brother, accompanied by Hermione and Harry, came hurtling through the door, followed by a slightly more serene Dumbledore.
"What's wrong?"
"Where is she?"
"Why is he here?"
"Hush. All of you," commanded Madame Pomfrey. "I can't very well tell you what's going on unless I am given the time and peace to concentrate on examining her."
"But she could be dying!" exclaimed Ron.
"She's already --"
"Shut up!" Harry hissed at them - the other two thirds of the Trio - as he eyed Malfoy suspiciously.
"Mr Malfoy," addressed Dumbledore, "go up to my office and await my arrival."
"Fine." Draco knew a dismissal when he heard one; Merlin, he gave enough out himself. However, before he had reached the doors he remembered the glass bottle hitting against his thigh, in his pocket. He brought it out and called back to Ron, "Weasley! Your sister dropped this." He threw it at the redhead then coolly walked out, allowing the doors to slam behind him. Honestly, he thought as he meandered up to Dumbledore's office, she could be dying, He mocked the elder Weasley's words in his mind. They really had overreacted; all she'd done was faint. Anyone would have thought she was something special at the way they'd all been rush, rush, rush about getting her into some care. Bloody Gryffindors. If she'd been a Slytherin they'd no doubt have dowsed her with ice cold water to wake her up, none of this 'up to the Hospital Wing business'. Hypochondriacs. Though, he did have to admit, he felt a little guilt, not much, but a twinge.
He sat in front of the large mahogany desk, listening to the strange instruments around him tinkle away; he was musing over everything, more particularly his father and how he was in Azkaban. Draco was now his own man. Not necessarily a good one, or even one that's half likeable, but more decent than he used to be - a few more morals. Of course, still hating every un-pure witch or wizard and still an arrogant snob but there was definitely a bit more moral fibre developing. He wasn't sure if he liked it or not. He worked for the Order, and now lived alone in his Manor. His mother had fled to Italy with relatives, hoping to remain neutral in the upcoming War. That's what Draco had wanted to do too, be neutral, be safe but Snape convinced him of playing the role of the double agent too. It would be hard, Draco knew it would be, but this summer - once he left Hogwarts - he was due to be initiated as a Death Eater and feed information back to Dumbledore and those working for the "good" side. This way, whichever side won, he supposed he could still benefit from the result.
Perhaps not that much moral fibre had developed yet.
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"Lemon Drop, Mister Malfoy?"
Draco found his pulse suddenly quickening and the ends of his fingers feeling tingly and sweaty; he hated people sneaking up on him. He'd been happily lost in thought before Dumbledore had come along and interrupted. Though, he supposed, he was in the old man's office, sitting opposite his desk, and was only there due to the fact Dumbledore had asked him to be. Still, was the old codger trying to make him go into cardiac arrest?
A small brown paper bag was thrust beneath his face and he found himself looking at twenty or so, oval shaped, glossy yellow sweets. "No. . .no, thank you," he grimaced. . .Muggle candy.
"Suit yourself." He popped one into his own mouth then took his place opposite Draco, his hands melded together to form a steeple, his face suddenly serious. The silence fell, pregnant and slightly awkward. "Miss Ginevra Weasley. . .has an, an affliction." Draco nearly snorted and told Dumbledore it would be what everyone would suffer from if they spent that much time around Gryffindors, but something in the way he old man seemed resigned and tragic stopped him.
"Wha -"
"It's cancer, Mister Malfoy."
Draco gulped. Cancer. A filthy disease that affected Wizards and Muggles alike; it showed no discrimination.
"Now, I'm sure you understand the delicacy of this situation, I am trusting you not to misuse this information I have given you and above all you are to never tell a soul; this is Miss Weasley's secret to divulge, and by the way things seem to be occurring she has told no one but Harry, Miss Granger and her brother."
"You're not going to Obliviate me, sir, are you?" choked out Draco.
Dumbledore smiled tightly. "Do you think it more prudent I do so? Or can you handle not telling anyone about this?"
"I - I won't tell, I promise, sir, I wouldn't."
For a long moment Dumbledore's blue eye stared right through Draco, and then he spoke, "No, Mister Malfoy, I don't believe you will. I don't want Miss Weasley's last times here to be marred by people knowing and treating her - as I know she detests - like an invalid."
"Yes, sir."
It wasn't until much later, as Draco lay in his bed thinking about Ginevra Weasley and cancer, when he truly comprehended Dumbledore's words, Miss Weasley's last times here. . . It was terminal.
0x-
The next day Ginny felt as she always felt after handling her cancer badly, after letting herself forget medication and have to be taken to have medical assistance - angry with herself. She so wanted people to see her, the real her, not the ever-growing tumour, in her head and going and having a fit in the middle of the bloody library was not the best of ways to convince people she was still Ginny Weasley and still perfectly alive for the moment. Opening her eyes, she found herself in the Hospital Wing. To the right of her, on her dressing table, lay a goblet of potion and her vial of potion she was to take regularly. There was also a glass of water and a plate of bacon sandwiches, being kept warm by some sort of spell.
"Miss Weasley." At the recognizable sound of Dumbledore's voice she attempted to sit up to face her head teacher; however, the moment she tried a sharp pain twisted through the back of her head and she found herself falling heavily back into her pillow, a dull thud residing at the base of her head. "Rest, Miss Weasley - Madame Pomfrey will be back any moment with fresh pain elimination potion." She smiled in a tight-lipped, strained way; it hurt and she felt utterly drained.
"Your brother has only just left your side. He was very worried and I daresay he, Miss Granger and Mr Potter will be here to visit you after classes."
"I'm not staying here all day, sir," she blurted out more brusquely than intended. "I have lessons too. I'll take my potion, then get ready." She glanced at the clock on the opposite wall; it hurt to focus on the ticking hands. "I'll be there for Charms, in third period."
"I don't think it wise. . ."
"With all due respect, Professor -"
"You know, when a pupil begins a sentence like that, the next thing that erupts from their mouth is something entirely disrespectful." he chuckled. "So, I won't try to deter you. You may return to lessons if you feel well enough - if, however, you are doing so just to prove a point to others, I suggest you don't." Ginny felt herself blush a little, for she was doing I to prove to everyone she wasn't weak, but part of her needed to prove it to herself, part of her needed to believe she wouldn't be beaten, that she'd enjoy her last times here and then succumb to cancer in death.
"Thank you, sir."
"Now, Miss Weasley, another reason for my being here - do you remember what happened yesterday?"
". . .I was in the Library and Malfoy was being a pain in the arse - sorry, Professor - he was. . .just being Malfoy, and we got into a bit of a fight, he goaded me, and I took the bait. . .things got a bit tense and I hadn't taken my potion . . .so I fainted."
"I see; it was he who bought you here, you know."
She was shocked. "Madame Pince's orders and a guilty conscience, no doubt."
Dumbledore smiled softly at the redhead. "Perhaps."
"Professor? Does he know? Does he know about. . .about the tumour?" A bitter hardness laced her voice. Her head felt on fire but she didn't care. This was more important.
"I did tell him why it was you'd lost consciousness - I have his word, Miss Weasley, that he will not tell another person."
"Oh fantastic! And we all know how bloody amazing Slytherins are at keeping up their sides of bargains! The entirety of the school probably already knows!"
"Calm yourself, Miss Weasley. I do not believe he'll do so."
"It is my secret to tell! He didn't have to know." Hot tears were welling in her eyes. She was so furious and so in pain; she felt the dizzying sensation returning, so the redhead made an effort to soothe herself, her breathing becoming deeper and more controlled, her emotions less erratic. "He didn't have to know. . ."
What was this world coming to when beautiful, talented witches like Ginevra Weasley, a girl who had more gumption and fire within than any could dream to have, could be so easily taken by disease?
"Are you quite finished, Dumbledore? This poor girl needs her potion and rest."
He smiled at the bustling matron. "She is to take her potion, then draw her a bath in the Hospital's baths, Poppy, then miss Weasley wishes to return to classes. I shall tell Dobby to bring you up some fresh clothes, Miss Weasley. Goodbye." Madame Pomfrey was speechless, gawping at the back of the retreating Professor with wide disbelieving eyes; he'd angered and reduced Ginny to tears and then was instructing that she allow her patient to swan back off into lessons. She respected that man beyond all others, but sometimes she really did have to question his actions.
0x-
It was three days after her episode in the Library and Ginny hadn't really seen Draco Malfoy since. More shockingly, she'd heard no whispers about her - had the snake really kept his word to Dumbledore? Was he not to speak out about her? Was he not smirking about how the youngest Weasley would die and rid Hogwarts of at least one Muggle-loving fool. . .Ugh! She kicked out at a statue - Archibald the Amicable. She'd been in such a foul mood all week and her friends had really been suffering, Colin Creevey in particular. The poor boy was utterly devoted to their friendship, yet Ginny had been vacant towards him since arriving back after the summer.
In fact, it was said boy who found the redhead on the floor nursing her sore toes, her bag slung next to her, her sketchpad poking out invitingly. "Hey Gin."
"Colin," she greeted, slightly preoccupied with doing up her laces again.
"You okay?"
"Peachy."
"Okay. . .so what's wrong now?"
"Malfoy."
"Ah. What's he done?"
"That's the thing. . .he hasn't done a thing."
Colin blinked; he was confused now. "Eh?"
"Oh, whatever; it doesn't matter!" she snapped, thoroughly irritated and on edge. She was very appreciative that word of her tumour hadn't spread through the school like a Doxy infestation, but she feared Malfoy was just biding his time, waiting in secret just to spring on her that he was pulling some sort of stunt that would ruin all the effort that she put into her façade.
This was enough. Something inside Colin Creevey snapped. What, in the name of Merlin, had become of his darling best friend? The young woman he used to show his photography to, who used to have time for no matter how trivial his problems - she was there, but not there. Something was very wrong, but he hadn't the resolve nor the patience to allow it to continue, he had to speak out. "Why are you being such a damned bitch, Gin?"
"Excuse me?" her eyes flew open wide and she pulled herself up onto her feet so she was standing at her full height.
"For weeks you've bloody well ignored me, or snapped at me! I've had enough, I can't take it anymore!"
"Fine! If I'm not worth bothering about then just piss off! Go on - get lost, Creevey." She glared hard at him, and he returned the gesture with a harsh vehemence. However he faltered and turned on his heel, striding away - he'd wanted to be the one to make her walk away, but something in her eyes told him she was not going to back down - a ferocity he dare not challenge no matter how useless and unneeded her actions had forced him to feel. "Bastard." she whispered as she sunk back against the wall, letting herself slide down the brickwork till she sat on the floor once more, her legs stretched out in front of her. Relaxed and with her face tilted upwards, a steady flow of tears slipped down her cheeks. There was no one to blame but herself, she knew this; she should have told him, should go find him now and tell him why she had to disappear off, and seemed more distant, more art-consumed than usual.
Sniffing deeply, she took in three gulps of air and wiped the salt water from her cheeks. Almost robotically, she stood up and hefted her bag onto her shoulder. As she stalked down the same path Colin had taken only minutes before, she felt herself growing more miserable, and knew that the tears she had only just erased would soon be staining her cheeks, and that she must not return to the common room where her Golden Trio would fuss over her and make her sit down and drink copious amounts of tea before, once again, trying to coerce her into telling Colin and her other friends about her condition. Her condition. She hated that phrasing, hated it all, any euphemism for great big stinking tumour. It was like, she supposed, saying the name Voldemort. People assumed he'd come after them the moment they let slip the three syllables as though it were a summoning spell, and not an anagram of Tom Marvolo Riddle. Though, she herself had been someone who had called him "You-Know-Who" until she discovered the fear of a name only increases the fear itself. She had a tumour and she was going to die. They were facts, and when said as plainly as that she wasn't half as scared.
0x-
It was early Saturday morning, so early in fact that the House Elves had only just begun making breakfast, but Ginevra Weasley up and awake and lying on a table in the kitchens, sketchpad in front of her, her small tin of watercolours beside her, along with a variety of different sized brushes, a graphite pencil, a rubber and a glass of water which was stained a dark red. The picture she was painting was of herself, in a distorted, crimson way. Everything in the piece was dreamlike, surreal; all of it painted in varying shades of ruby. It was finished. Her eyes looked jewel-like and her hair was long strands of copper, burgundy and shocking red. It was beautiful; even she could say so, although she was almightily biased, but it wasn't her, not really. . .It was just a feeling she'd had that week - she'd felt truly alienated and unsure of herself and completely un-Ginny-ish, and she supposed that was what her latest artwork portrayed - her illusory, trancelike state. However, once she put the last brush stroke upon the piece she no longer felt it. Something seemed to lift, the was spell broken; all at once a magnitude of emotions rolled through her; she was tired, angry, resentful, happy, annoyed, peaceful and confused, but it all felt so good - so refreshing! Because all of it was finally being felt, not as though she were above her body watching it go through the motions of these shifting sensations, but actually could feel it. It always paid for her to draw or paint how she felt. It was cathartic - there was no release like it.
"Would Miss Wheezy like her breakfast here, Tizzle wonders." A small elf with large blue eyes had appeared beside her. Tizzle seemed to have taken a liking to Ginny, as it was always she who attended to Ginny while she visited the kitchens - generally not for food, but for a bit of scenery change.
"Erm, yes please, Tizzle - some toast if that possible. . .and a glass of orange juice?"
"Miss Wheezy would not like bacon? Eggs? Pancakes or Kippers?"
"No, thank you."
"Tizzle is thinking that Miss Wheezy is becoming too thin, if that does not offend Miss Wheezy for Tizzle to say so."
Ginny smiled fondly and looked down at herself. She was wrapped up in her brother's old Hogwarts robe, and beneath that a pair of threadbare shorts and small top. She'd simply put the cloak over her pyjamas that morning - she'd change later. The elf was, of course, correct, as was everyone else who told her she was far too skinny. "I know, Tizzle, I just can't bring my self to eat as much as everyone else."
"Never mind, Miss Wheezy. Tizzle will make you lots of nice cakes that you will want to eat." The elf smiled, bowed and wandered off to fetch her, her breakfast and hopefully not cake.
She'd spent a good deal of time looking at herself last night after her bath. She was pale and far too thin, her angular bones jutting out at sharp slants. Her face, though slightly haunted, had lost little of its beauty, though her elvin features, she hoped, would remain with her until the very end. She did not wish to look like a skeleton; it was not attractive or particularly morale-enhancing. Perhaps she would try to eat a little more often, try and stomach the odd slice of pecan pie, or a chocolate frog here and there. She refused to end up looking like a corpse before she was one. Before she knew it, a platter of toast lay before her, an array of jams and spreads surrounding the stack of toast slices, and a pitcher filled with orange juice and a glass were placed in front of her, her sketchpad cleared away in her bag along with her instruments.
"Thank you."
"Nothing is too much, Miss Wheezy," squeaked Tizzle before absconding away, no doubt off to make food for the awaking students and teachers. A little strawberry jam layered her butter soaked toast and she bit delicately, thinking over her Charms homework, and although it didn't strike a chord within her, for those few minutes her tumour didn't even enter her own thoughts - she was just an ordinary teenage witch with an essay, for Professor Flitwick, to write.
Author's Note: Hello, my loves.
First chapter up =]]
They'll be ten chapters and an epilogue to this fic.
What do you think, eh? Review for me, please?
It was beta'd by the amazing Lyndsie - she's fabulous!
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