Painting Her Portrait

Br0ken.Dolly.x

Rating: R
Genres: Angst, Romance
Relationships: Draco & Ginny
Book: Draco & Ginny, Books 1 - 6
Published: 07/07/2006
Last Updated: 27/10/2007
Status: in_progress

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.

Chapters

1. Prologue

2. untitled

3. untitled

1. Prologue

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.

2. untitled

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.

0x-

“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!

x

3. untitled

Painting Her Portrait

WEEK TWO: - “. . .not funny, Gin.”

Colin eyed the redhead over his kippers; she was giggling at something her brother was saying to Harry and Hermione, something about them acting like an old married couple, the brunette blushing at these words - he wished those two‘d hurry up and get together already. She, Ginny that is, looked happy enough without him around her and it was killing him; she was his best friend. His confident. His rock. . .and he was hers. Or at least, he’d always thought he’d been hers. She’d always shared everything with him, but since the beginning of term she’d been distant; hiding herself away in her studies and her art. Her art that she no longer showed him and yet only last year he’d seen nearly every single doodle she’d done, even if it was just a small eyed she’d etched into the corner of her parchment or a heart, absentmindedly drawn as they gossiped in the Library. He knew something was wrong - Merlin! - everything about her was wrong. She looked stretched, her eyes deadened and her skin not quite so luminous. Furthermore she was thinner than ever, not that she’d ever been anything other than slight but. . .when she’d granted him - a now scarcely given - hug he could have snapped her in two. He also noticed her inability to eat great amounts and her odd distance from the world.

It was bizarre and it was killing him she didn’t seem to care that he was worried sick about her well being.

Ginny stopped laughing quite suddenly and looked over towards Colin, her best friend, her best friend who didn’t know she wouldn’t live to see the new year, her best friend who she wasn’t speaking to at the moment. Colouring slightly she garbled an excuse before standing, fumbling with her bag and heading out of the hall, glaring hatefully at the Slytherins as she passed them by, simply because one of them held within his mind one of the most precious secrets that she’d ever possessed. Pansy and Millicent had spied the redhead’s spiteful glower towards their house and whispered to one another that “that damn bitch was going to get a seeing to”. Slytherin girls - well, girls in general - didn’t have much love for Ginny, they never had done, truthfully. In her mind Ginny counted only two girls to be her proper friends, Hermione Granger and Luna Lovegood. And both of those were not exactly considered the “epitome of femininity”, Hermione with her bushy, brown, hair and long gangly legs and Luna who was odder than most that attended the school and was in ownership of the pair of biggest, roundest, eyes that Ginny had ever seen. Still, they were her friends and she didn’t care that a majority of the female population regarded her with distain. Distain for her being slim. Being fun, confident, intelligent, creative, beautiful. For having a loud dirty laugh, and for not caring that she wasn’t seen as cool or chic.

Yawning, Ginny found herself in front of the Room of Requirement, the door already there and just waiting for her to open it. She did have the morning free due to potions being cancelled that day and well. . .it’d seem positively rude not to oblige after it had materialized for her. Pushing down the tarnished brass handle, she entered. The room was large and spacious, painted cream with an extensive, smooth and varnished wooden floor. One wall was designed to look as if it was a patio, summer sun shining gently through it, warming the room. Ginny smiled. In the centre of the room there was a long thin table, upon it was clay, paints, glaze and various implements for cutting and shaping the clay. To the side of the table there was also a potter’s wheel. Perfect. She didn’t know a better way to lose one’s self and release stress than ceramic sculpture. . .well, with the exception of flying, maybe.

Taking off her robe and replacing it with a large apron Ginny hacked off a lump of clay, dampened her hands and began to knead the clay as though it were dough. It softened easily beneath her forceful ministrations. It felt co cool and . . .squidgy. It was almost a cathartic exercise, the feeling of the grey mass beneath her long, artist’s fingers. What to make? What to create? A bust; the head and shoulders of a certain someone. But who?

It clicked.

She began to mould the beginnings of a head, neck and shoulders. Big, strong, shoulders. A pointed chin and a prominent, roman nose. Shapely lips and high cheekbones. A coif of swept back hair; not gelled, or plastic looking. . .just longish and pushed back out of the eyes. Glancing at her watch she saw she’d been there for two hours! Drat! Transfiguration began in ten minutes; jumping up she pulled the apron off of herself and grabbed her bag. Darting from the room she pelted through the corridors, ignoring the bemused looks of students that were slowly ambling to their next lessons or chatting idly to their friends. Her clay caked hands pushed open the door to Professor McGonagal’s room and, breathing heavily, entered the half full classroom.

“Sweet Merlin, Ms Weasley! What is all over you?”

Looking down at herself Ginny saw her hands were grey and dusty, her sleeves too were covered with splatters of clay, her robe had been left in the Room of Requirement and, once she caught sight of her face in the window, she discovered that she had a smudge of clay on her nose, her forehead and small clumps in her hair. Circe. She really needed to be more careful. She gave a little apologetic ‘heh’ and shrugged slightly as if to say to her Head of House “what can you do?”.

“It’s, erm. . .clay, Professor.”

“I see. Well, take a seat, Weasley.”

Seeing her usual seat besides Colin taken by a Hufflepuff she only vaguely knew, she made her way to the vacant place next to the window, behind Luna. Noticing Colin’s gaze - though he was trying his hardest to look casual as he chatted to his new found friend - she was determined to not look at him, or upset by the fact he’d replaced her. She supposed, that in January he’d need to find a new working partner anyway. Turning around Luna faced the redhead.

“Hey, Gin.”

“’Lo Luna. . .don’t suppose you have a mirror do you?”

The blonde shook her head, her long tresses flailing about her shoulders, “but I do have this marvellous Crumple Horned Snorkack’s crumpled horn and it’s reflective so, you know, you could use that. . .though, I personally I think that the ‘flecked with clay’ look only adds to your arty image. . .”

Ginny coughed. “Well, thanks, Luna but. . .you know what? I don’t care.” And, honestly, she found she couldn’t have cared less that she was dotted with remnants of her creativity, so, washing the clay off her hands with a scourgify charm, she didn’t attempt to locate the whereabouts of the rest of the mess upon her person. . .she’d shower tonight, anyway. Smiling at her friend, Ginny took out parchment, quill and ink and prepared for the lesson. Really, what did it matter she didn’t look perfect? Life wasn’t perfect, she wasn’t perfect. . .nothing was perfect, not really.

0x-

The next day, fresh and fully devoid of clay, Ginny entered the Great Hall and joined the Ravenclaw table for breakfast as opposed to joining her fellow Gryffindors. She was in a good mood, a bright mood and a mood that allowed her to not worry quite so much about her looming fate. And, when in a mood such as this, she preferred to sit with Luna. Luna didn’t question things, she didn’t fret over her as though she were fragile goods and she didn’t shoot her hostile looks that clearly said she ought to apologise for being a bitch.

“Hello Ginny.”

“Hi Luna…mind if I sit with you lot this morning?”

The blonde shook her head, but as she did so Ginny noticed a large ebony feathered owl descend upon her and squawk loudly, impatiently, as though it had been waiting there for hours no seconds. Merlin. Even bloody birds were having a go at her these days. Untying the burden of a thin piece of parchment from it’s leg, the hauntingly beautiful owl rose once more into the air and swooped away, quick as it had come.

“How…odd. I never get post that’s not delivered by Errol.”

Shrugging, the redhead unfurled the yellowish scrap.

Miss Weasley,

We here at St. Mungo’s believe every terminally ill patient should begin sessions with our councillor as the end of their suffering draws to a close. Please owl back for suitable times.

Eleanor Dames,

Welcome Witch for St. Mungo’s Hospital

She crumpled the parchment before anyone had a chance to read the words scrawled upon it in swirling, unfeeling text. How…brusque and unsympathetic…clearly St. Mungo’s needed help with customer relations. And, well that was besides the point. She didn’t need to see a bloody shrink. That’s what art was for…that’s why she was creative; if she went and spewed her feelings out for an allotted half an hour a week with a nobody who couldn’t really care if Ginny was seeing rainbows and bunny rabbits or a homicidal maniac murdering her entire family in an ink blot test where would her muse go? Down the toilet, that’s where…and with her expiry date so very close…well, she didn’t want inspiration to run dry. Didn’t want to hit “painters block”, as it were.

“Who was that from?”

“Erm, just some beauty product company I signed up for.” The lie fell easily from her tongue, though it really wasn’t appropriate. Ginny never wore make-up, except for the odd layer of mascara to give her eyes a bit of definition and frame. That never seemed to occur to the blonde, however, or if it did (which Ginny suspected it did, as Luna was the most perceptive of people.) she chose to ignore her friend’s hidden truth and continue to gabble about how her father had recently written an article about the Leonardo Di Vinci scandal…normally Ginny could have been mildly interested, but right now her mind wandered.; positive mood, evaporating by the minute. It irritated her no end when people pushed their noses in, picking up a croissant (clearly the House Elves were getting a little adventurous these days) she savagely pulled it apart with her fingers and crammed little bits into her mouth. Not really remembering to chew all that well.

“Whoa, steady, Gin-girl.” Laughed Michel Corner, her ex-boyfriend. “You’re in danger of actually gaining weight if you eat like that.”

“Chance’d be a fine thing, Michel.” Sighed Ginny, glaring at the protruding bone in her wrist.

The boy simply chuckled, she really was the oddest girl he’d ever met. Well, excluding Looney Lovegood, perhaps. She wanted to gain weight…all he ever heard about was stick thin girls attempting to lose “Just A Few More Pounds” - and what? You’ll turn sideways and disappear?! Not Gin though, grounded that one was…far too into art to care what the reflection showed. Though, he had to say, she didn’t need to worry…au naturelle seemed the perfect solution to Ginevra Weasley looking beautiful. Occasionally he looked back to their fourth year and regretted ending things with her. Then, of course, he’d recall the strange distraction she had from life, the way all the little things would upset or please her and all the big things wash over her as though nothing had happened. She seemed detached and yet so completely consumed by everything life had to offer - good or bad. One of life’s rarities, that, he was certain of.

“Hey, Luna -- I’ll, err, see you in Charms, okay?” murmured Ginny as she stood, slinging her far too heavy bag over her shoulder.

“Don’t forget the careers talk, Gin, you need to sign up - it’s on Saturday. That entrepreneur who Daddy reckons stole --”

“Yeah, don’t worry I’ll do it.” She felt a little mean, dismissing her friend’s anecdote so abruptly but you had to nip it in the bud with people like Luna, or, well, you’d be there all morning and when you just wanted out of the room full of inane chatter…it was just something you had to do.

Stupid careers meeting. What was the bloody point…she could be finishing off her sculpture in the Room of Requirement instead of listening to some Gilderoy Lockhart wannabe talk about how he changed the world, with luck, determination and a few million galleons from Mummy’s rainy day fund. Even if she didn’t have a bloody great tumour that would ensure she have no career or future she was certain she wouldn’t have wanted the pompous git to come and talk to her…she’d have wanted to be an artist. She did want to be an artist…wanted her own shows…for people to pay to see and own her work…

Oh, Hell.

Tears began bubbling in her eyes. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She knew, she trained herself, to never think about the future…especially when she didn’t have one longer than nine weeks…but sometimes, sometimes damn it, it just wasn’t fair. It really wasn’t….she wanted to be successful, wanted kids and a husband and a house and…just to live. For Merlin’s sake she wanted to live.

“Well, well…mini Weasley.” The nasal voice came from that of none other than Pansy Parkinson. Her dark brown bob and pug-nose recognisable through even Ginny’s fairly think flow of tears.

“Aww…she’s cwying, Pans.” Mocked Daphne Greengrass, a beautiful Slytherin girl, all platinum blonde and legs.

Pansy laughed - a low menacing chuckle…nothing like the high, shrieking cackle she put on in the Great Hall so that people would turn to look at what the Princess of Slytherin found quite so hilarious. Generally it was the misfortune or humiliation of one of her peers.

“Get lost, you poisonous bints, I’m in no mood.”

“Oh really? Look at that, Daph, the redhead’s got claws.”

“So it would seem.”

“We just wanted a little chat, Ginny, darling” smirked the brunette. The two girls advanced on the redhead, backing her into the wall.

“Yeah, well, I don’t want a conversation with two people who have not enough brains between them to fill a thimble.”

“A what?”

Ginny ignored the slightly intellectually challenged blonde and attempted to barge past them. Her minuscule frame simply bounced off their toned, heavily exercised bodies, causing her to jerk back against the wall. If Malfoy had told them…Ooh.

She was just reaching for her wand, thinking she love to take all her current frustrations out on the two when a tall, white-blonde, boy appeared behind them.

“Girls.” he greeted, icily. His grey eyes flashing menacingly.

Pansy turned, clearly thinking he’d come to help taunt the small redhead. “Oh, Drake! Come to join the fun? Don’t you think Weasley’s been getting a little too big for her boots..? Me and Daphne here, were discussing it yesterday. She has this air of…superiority --”

Ginny was about to shout down the impertinent, hypocritical brunette when Malfoy stepped in. “And you don’t have that, eh, Parkinson?” He gave a derisive look, which left no one in any uncertain terms that Draco Malfoy was a snob that saw himself even above those of his own creed. “Now, you two little girls run along and play nicely in future.”

Daphne began to protest.

“Or you’ll have me to contend with, Darlings.”

He shook his head as he turned and watched the two storm away, rage apparently making them walk with more flare to their hips than was quite possibly normal…or attractive. The amused glint in his eyes dimmed as he turned back to face Ginny. Watching her as she composed herself after what he thought must have been quite harrowing for the poor girl…she wasn’t as strong --

CRACK!

He felt the petit, russet-haired, girl’s hand collide with his cheek hard an smartly. It instantly began to sting and a red mark was glowing on his pale flesh.

“You’re welcome!” He gasped; shock and indignation and an urge to still keep his rage under control for her sake.

Bloody miscreant! How dare he? She’d never felt so weak or embarrassed in her life…she expected him to be mean about her illness, snide or even flat out ignore her not wanting to associate with someone pot marked by death…but this over-protective, I’ll save you bull shit was bad enough when it came from people who loved her…but, from that pasty faced little ferret! It was too much to bear. Particularly in front of those two girls. She could have saved her own ass. She knew more spells and curses than Greengrass and Parkinson between them. Idiot! Next time they’d have Millicent too, who, although as about as bright as Crabbe and Goyle on good days, had more muscle and strength and…bulk than Ginny had ever had in her life sick or no.

“For Merlin’s sake Malfoy! I was fine! Don’t think you have some sort of bloody noble duty to look after me or some shit like that. You don’t need to treat me any differently to normal. Great Circe.” And with that she too stormed away. Leaving the Slytherin feeling both hard done by and very confused. One of the very few time she’d stuck up for someone in need and had been slapped for his trouble and told to back off. Ungrateful little chit.

0x-

Bursting into the Room of Requirement, she saw everything as she’d left it before dashing out to Transfiguration the day before. The sculpture of Draco Malfoy half finished, yet utterly recognisable as it’s human counterpart. Standing in front of it she punched the solid clay, hard. It barely dented the face, only to smudge the nose a little. Rage, frustration and the indignation the three times already today she’d been reminded she was dying, all came out into the bust of the blonde haired Slytherin royalty. How dare he? How fucking dare he?

She didn’t want his blasted pity. Didn’t want anyone’s pity. Didn’t want to need pity. Didn’t want a reason to have to have pity. She continued to punched and rip at the clay until there was nothing left. Her head hurt, her cheeks were streaked with tears and for the life of her she could not understand a word of what was blustering through her mind. Song lyrics, quotations, curses, rants, books, dreams and wishes that she’d never fulfil.

“Arghhhh! Enough! I’ve had…I’ve had enough now. Take it away, please…just take it away.” The room changed. She found herself lying in the centre of a large bed covered in emerald green sheets, sobbing her heart out until she could physically feel the pain in her heart. Scrambling about her hands found the handles to her bag. Opening it up she search for a vial, full of her medicine. Downing the recommended amount she felt sleep hit her like a steam train. She was so warn out…so tired. Just need sleep. Just a little bit of sleep…

0x-

It was four days since Ginny’s…episode in the Room of Requirement. She told no one about it and for some reason people seemed to know better than to ask where she’d disappeared to that day. Rumours as to where - or who from, more accurately - Malfoy had acquired the red hand print upon his cheek had been circulating the castle, something Ginny shared a secret smile to herself about. Something she’d have told Colin, under normal circumstances and they’d have both giggled at the Ice Prince’s misfortune at crossing Ginevra Weasley. He’d not attempted to approach her again, which she was thankful for. She didn’t think she could handle another fit like the one which he’d induced. Not two in a week anyway, far too tiring, really. Fun though…she must remember he was the one to seek out if she ever needed to feel that yes, she wasn’t quite dead yet.

The redhead currently sat in her Charms classroom, listening to a absurdly tanned, permed and enthusiastic wizard chatter meaninglessly about how he’d managed to do something or other and create an empire all by himself. Never mind, all those people you’d have to have to work for you, the accountants and lawyers and cleaners and P&A people…mused Ginny. Foolish man. How was it he didn’t have cancer or something equally permanent…Spattergroit, for example. The orange pustules would blend excellently with his St. Tropez colouring, she was sure.

“Ginny - Gin!” Hissed Luna. “Come on, he’s done.”

“Oh right.” Slightly dazed and half in a reverie she stood and began to exit the classroom. On the way out the brilliantly carroty pigmented wizard handed her a free copy of his The Guide Essential Guide To Your Future Career. The fact it was only twenty-three pages long didn’t seem to hint towards anyone but Ginny that if would be utterly useless. Then again, she pondered as she walked down a silent corridor, in her situation the silly little book was utterly superfluous anyway and she tossed it over her shoulder.

“Ouch.”

She spun on her heel. “Colin! You scared me.”

“Yeah, well…” he muttered resentfully, picking the book of other floor and reaching out his arm to hand it to her.

“I don’t want it. Why are you following me?”

“Why don’t you want it?” demanded Colin. “Think you’re too good to need a fall back plan if maybe, just maybe your oh so stable career as an artist doesn’t launch properly?”

“No, actually, more of the fact I don’t have a future to worry about. besides…it’s none of your damned business, Creevey.” She growled his surname with a ferocity that made Colin think Ginny had been picking up tips from Malfoy and his cronies, recently.

“What are you talking about, Gin…look I didn’t mean you weren’t good at art or anything just you know…it’s not a solid --”

“Save it, Colin, okay? I know you weren’t saying that.”

“Well, then, don’t be stupid, Gin; you have got a future.”

“No, Colin,” she smiled sadly. “What I do have is cancer.”

Silence. Deadened, impenetrable silence.

“…not funny, Gin.”

“Not laughing, Col.”

Author’s Note: Really sorry…it’s taken forever! I hope you like it though. The characters are starting to feel more real, more there to me now. Hope you feel that too.

Draco will be more developed as the story goes on. And hopefully, Ginny will just continue to grow. I know she seems fickle; she wants pity, she doesn’t. She wants to be notice, to be left alone. And truthfully I think she doesn’t quite know how she feels. On one hand death doesn’t scare her, but her lack of future does -- y’know?

Anyways, please review. I’d love to know what you think.

And I shall try to update speedier next time.

Tash x