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I
The knowledge that the world moves on without you is, well, unnerving.
The fact that life will continue to grow; to flourish long after you’ve left your mark could drive even the most assured wizard deranged.
He’s not afraid. No, that’s never been the issue. It’s hard to be afraid of death when you’re not really a person.
He’s not exactly sure what compels him to stay here in this dark, dusty house. It’s not like he doesn’t have options. He could go home if he wanted; it wouldn’t be hard. Just a few steps and he’d be staring at the immaculate papering that covered the opposing wall of the grand library, where all those of the House of Malfoy hang. But there is no home, not anymore. Not since The Manor’s beauty and elegance had become soiled with grime and filth. Not since the Manor had stopped being a house and had become a prison; a hole for dark purposes.
The only home he has now is this 30-inch frame to house him.
Well, then again, a painting doesn’t really need a home.
II
He hears her before he sees her.
He’s startled one morning by the sound of shouting. Now, he’s accustomed to shouting. It often happens between rowdy relatives like Marius Black and his great aunt Walburga. But this was different. This was a voice he’d never heard before, it was rich and young and full of piss and vinegar and he was curious.
“Look, you ruddy ol’ cow, I’m entitled to be here as much as anyone else...”
He quickly slides out of his chair and makes his way in the direction of the noise.
He often chooses to stay in his frame rather than roam around like many of his relative do. It’s not that he’s shy; he just doesn’t like his relatives. He can’t connect to anyone. They’re all old todgers with pokers up their arses, who drone on about the nobility and purity of the House of Black.
Phineas Black spins around in his seat to glare at him as he passes by through his frame.
“Excuse me, young man,” Phineas snarls, his neck turning an unflattering shade of purple. “You do not have permission to pass through here. This is my personal space, and you barging through here is most insufferable.”
He just rolls his eyes and keeps going, leaving Phineas to splutter after him as that unfortunate purple shade takes over his face. He stops his search when he reaches a ball room. There’s a crowd hovering around the dance floor, and he pushes his way to the front. He’s not exactly sure where in the Manor he is anymore. He’s never been in this painting before, and the figures around him are giving him hoity looks.
A woman wearing an ornate golden gown hits his arm with her fan and gives him a stern look. He sneers at her before turning his attention back to the scene unfolding in front of him.
There’s a girl, or maybe just an unusually short woman, in a dark blue cloak positively glaring daggers at the portrait of Belvina Black.
“Look, all I want to know is where the bloody loo is. Stop screeching at me!”
“How dare you!” Belvina bellows at the girl. “How dare you speak to me that way! I am the daughter of Phineas Nigellus Black, and I will not have filthy vermin like you infecting the noble birthplace of the House of Black.”
The girl throws her hands up in frustration and glowers at her. “Right, because you’re worried I’ll infect a house full of murdering Death Eaters. You people are impossible!”
A gluttonous-looking man with a large protruding belly pushes his way to the front of the crowd and stands beside him.
“Young lady,” he croaks out, his voice a low rasp of the utmost proper English. “I would advise you to watch your tongue when in the presence of your elders. It is very unbecoming of any young woman.”
The girl turns to scowl at him, a few strands of red hair tumbling from beneath the cover of her hood to brush against her face. Her eyes are hard and wild; anger flaring beneath, and her cheeks flushed. He watches as the girl’s eyes widen and the anger slips from her face, then her eyes are piercing into him. She’s staring at him. He’s sure of it.
“Draco,” she gasps, his name tumbling from her lips like she’s said it a million times. She’s smiling now, smiling at him with something like, well he’s not actually sure he’s ever seen this look before.
He feels his stomach drop to his feet. His skin feels clammy and cold.
She rushes forward, all but forgetting her previous argument and lifts her hand to the canvas. People all around gasp and turn from all directions to look at him.
“Draco, Merlin look at you! You’re so-- you’re just so...”
She brings a finger up, and some of the more delicate ladies around him shriek in fear as the giant finger comes forward.
He feels like he’s frozen to the floor, all he can do is look at her. She’s bonkers of course; he doesn’t know any girls with freckles and red hair and angr...
You must be a Weasley...
Suddenly visions of a small girl with a mane of curls and a brutal wand for hexing are whizzing through his head like a pensive.
She’s beaming now, and he can see tears glistening in her eyes, “Circe, I’ve missed you so much, and when you sent me that port key I just went for it. I didn’t even think about anything else other than getting to you-”
“Wait,” he says, his head spinning, “What the bloody hell are you talking about? A port key, I wouldn’t send you a port key. Why would you think I’d send you a port key?”
She stares at him with these large wild eyes before a crushed expression twists her features. It’s quite pathetic.
“I’m sorry,” she says quickly, pushing back her hood to show off all that ghastly red hair. “I just got caught up. Of course you don’t know what I’m talking about, why would you? You probably have no idea what’s happened with your real self’s life after you were painted.”
He feels the hair on the back of his neck bristle. How dare her! How dare she walk in here with her fifthly Weasley blood and rotten freckles and gush about him like he’s her flaming boyfriend or something. How dare she know more about his own life, than he does!
“Listen here,” he snarls, casting a quickly glace around at the audience she has created with her crazy antics. “I don’t know how you found out about this place, or how you got in, but I’m telling you to leave. Go back to Potter, your buffoon of a brother and the mudblood Granger.”
She goes to speak, but he turns on his heel and marches into the next closest painting. As he leaves he can feel the eyes of every single person on him; living and painted.
III
He’s scared to know the future.
He’s frightened to know what became because deep down inside he already knows. There’s nothing the Weasley girl can tell him that he hasn’t already suspected.
In his dream, he goes to catch his reflection but sees his father’s cruel, narrow features staring him down the mirror instead. Watches with his hard cold eyes as his boney finger trace the sharp line of his jaw. He knows what’s coming. He knows He’s back. Can hear Aunt Bella’s maniacal cackling ringing through the whole Manor as she hides in the Guest Quarters. He knows the mark that will no doubt get branded on his arm, the mask he’ll don, and the crimes he’ll commit all to keep face; to show his loyalty to his family. He’s ready; he’ll do it with pride, but it’s so much easier here to ignore and forget.
IV
He wakes with a groan and swipes at his head. The light is always too harsh in the morning, and his back is always too stiff. The chaise lounge in the library was never a comfortable piece of furniture.
Draco groans again, rolling onto his side. After another few moments, he rubs a pale hand over his face and slowly cracks an eye open.
He lets out a started yelp. The Weasley girl is standing there, staring at him with this little smile on her face. Her eyes are far too bright and wide for his liking.
“Morning,” she chirps, grinning at him like a ridiculous little school girl. It instantly reminds of how Pansy would look at him, especially last year when she was yearning for him to invite her to the Yule Ball. He ignores her greeting and just scowls in her direction. Slowly he pushes himself up, and runs a hand through his hair. Sometimes he’s glad that he doesn’t have to worry about grooming himself. His appearance will never change.
“Don’t feel like talking then?” she asks in an amused tone. He continues to ignore her and buttons his oxford slowly, fingering each pearly button as it slips through the hole.
“Well,” she begins, seemingly unfazed by his lack of response, “it took me forever to find you. I spent hours just walking around asking crabby old arses if they had any idea where the portrait of the ‘pale, blonde, broody boy’ was hanging. You know, the one who looks like he’s sitting on a sewing needle.”
Draco scowls again, biting back a harsh comeback, and choosing to fix her with a pointed glare before stuffing his head through the opening of his cashmere knit jumper.
“And I can’t even begin to tell you how many times I got lost. I swear to Morgana’s tit, this house has more twists and turns than all of Hogwarts. But finally a small girl pointed me in the direction of this hallway, and here you are.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, her smile turning wistful now. “It’s still such a shock to see how young you look. I'm so used to seeing…” she stops, her voice going quiet, and frowns slightly, “you’re just different now.”
He snaps, looking up at her with an exasperated glint to his eyes. “Oh, for God’s sake, Weasley, would you-”
“It’s not Weasley,” she says, twirling a strand of hair around her finger timidly.
He snarls at her, “If you expect me to know your real name, you have another thing coming. I don’t waste my breath trying to remember the thousands of weasels in your family by first name.”
“It’s not Weasley anymore.” She states, slightly annoyed. “It’s Malfoy now. I changed it when we got married.”
He stares at her for a moment, his head spinning in a thousand directions. “What did you say?”
She gives a small smile, “You’re my husband…well not you, but the Draco that’s out somewhere fighting, that’s who I married.”
“How…how old am I?” He stumbles back onto the chaise, his heart slamming in his chest.
“Twenty-two,” she says softly, taking a step closer to the frame. “We eloped last August. Just before the attack on Hogsmeade happened…”
“Stop,” he groans quietly, his head hanging between his knees. His stomach’s clenched so tight in knots he can barely breathe. Married. He’s married, and oh fuck, he feels like he’s going to pass out.
“… I know you don’t understand, I mean, I can hardly grasp how it happened, but…please look at me? Say something at least.”
He looks at his shoes, notices the tiny scuff that his mother had nagged him to get the house elves to remove, but he’d ignored her. There’s a small insignia of the Black’s coat of arms embroidered into the breast of his robe, thrown over the back of the desk’s chair.
This is his life. It’s centred on endless hours of reading and wandering around frames.
He stares at her for a second; takes in the width of her eyes, the depth of their colour, the puffy dark bruised skin that lies beneath them, the pallor of her skin, the mud caking the bottom of her robe. He takes her all in, at that moment and feels sick.
So he does the first thing that his mind is screaming at him to do. He runs.
V
He winds up in a scenic painting of India, made by his great-great-great uncle, or some shite like that. He was a nomad that never married, instead choosing to spend his time painting and collecting medicinal herbs.
This, of course, brought disappointment upon the Blacks. He is not mentioned much in the family documents.
He pulls his knees up tight to his chest and breathes deeply. He’d always wanted to travel as a child, but mother has claimed he was just too delicate. He didn’t have the constitution for that. An elephant wades into the water below him, splashing up water onto the rock he has situated himself on. The sound of the jungle rings through his ears.
She has to be lying. There’s no other possible explanation for this complete mess.
This isn’t the path his life was supposed to go down.
VI
She’s slumped against the opposing wall when he returns to his frame. Her ratty-looking cloak pulled up like a blanket, and her head hanging limp.
“Go away.”
Her head snaps up at the sound of his voice. She winces slightly, rubbing at the muscle with her hand. He snarls at her and goes to disappear again. Why can’t she just leave him alone?
“Wait,” she cries, scurrying up the wall and into a standing position. “Don’t go again. Please?”
He huffs, crossing his arms and scowling at her.
“You don’t have to talk to me, I swear. You can pretend I’m not here for all I care; just don’t leave again. You’ll all I have of him...er, you... right now and,” he hears her suck in a deep breath, her voice wavering on breaking. “Just please don’t go.”
He takes a deep breath, letting it fill his lungs fully before slowly dropping his arms and turning to face her. She wipes at her eyes quickly and smiles.
They stay like this for a moment, just taking each other in before Draco sighs. “So where am I now, if this horrid nightmare is my reality?”
“I... I don’t know. I haven’t seen him...you... in weeks. You owled me a few days ago, telling me to meet you here, so that’s what I’m doing.”
Draco runs a hand through his hair and flops down into a plush high back. “What am I doing that would separate us?”
She tucks her arms across her chest like she’s holding herself together. “I’m not really sure. We got separated as we were trying to escape the fighting at Gringotts. There was a raid on the bank, and somehow I lost you.”
He sits up, straightening his spine and gives her a confused look. “Why was there a raid at Gringotts?”
She pauses, her wide eyes taking a sorrowed look. “How old are you? Like, I mean right when you were painted, how old were you at the time?”
“I turned sixteen two days ago.”
She nods, playing with a piece of her hair. “Merlin, I keep forgetting that you have no bloody idea what I’m talking about.”
Draco clenches his jaw, “right, well, if that’s all you have to say, then I suggest you go find somewhere to wait. For a while, I may have gone utterly off my top in the future. The present me can’t deal with your frazzled mind.”
She lunges forward again, her nose practically pressing against the canvas now. “All right, all right, I promise not to say shite like that again, okay?”
He nods, “you still didn’t answer my question.”
“Oh, Gringotts. Right. A small group led by McNair ransacked the bank-”
“Wait,” Draco says, cutting in, “McNair is a business associate of my father’s. Why would he go around creating random terror acts?”
Ginny scowls, “He’s a Death Eater, that’s why. Since the fall of He—Voldemort, all the Death Eaters who weren’t captured in the battle-”
Draco’s eyes widen in shock, “What? Potter couldn’t possibly have won against the Dark Lord.”
Ginny gives another sad smile, “Oh, Draco, there is so much you don’t know.”
VII
He never told his father this, but he wanted to make wands like Ollivander when he was a young boy.
He would marvel at the sparks that would snap and crackle from the tip of his father’s wand, at the fire that would billow from his mother’s as she lit candles in her parlour.
He wanted to make them. He wanted to be the one to create the kind of power, the one to make something that everyone needed to survive.
Maybe then he’d make his father proud.
VIII
“...do you honestly expect me to believe that?” Draco huffs, drumming his finger against the leather cover of the arm rest.
She giggles softly, “It was awful! You’d practically splinched your right arm completely off, and I had to fumble around trying to fix you up the best I could. I was panicking while you just screamed and flailed around on the ground.”
“Well,” Draco snaps, his cheeks brightening somehow, even though it clearly wasn’t his memory. “What else do you expect from a man who’s just lost a limb.”
The Weasley girl continues to giggles, and he scowls at her.
“I don’t see the humour in that situation at all.”
She sobers up slightly and smiles, “no, of course, you wouldn’t.”
They both quiet for a moment, and she runs a hand through her hair, wrinkling her nose as she does.
“Cor, I could really use a rinse. I haven’t had a decent wash in days.” She sniffs at a strand of her copper hair and scrunches her nose again.
“I could show you where the bathroom is. I think there’s one on the third story.” Draco pushes himself off the chair and makes his way to the left side of the room. “Just follow me, I guess.”
She quickly scrambles off the ground and beams at him. “Thanks.”
Draco nods, stepping into the painting hanging next to his. He quickly hurries through the portrait of Cassiopeia Black, bowing slightly to acknowledge her.
“Oh, young Mister Malfoy,” she calls, “do try to keep it down with the guest you have visiting you. It’s disrupting my sleeping pattern.”
“Yes, ma’me,” he says off hand, rushing through to the next painting, which turns out to be a Safari battle scene of the African Plains.
The Weasley girl laughs, the sound echoing through the hallway.
IX
Eventually, they stumble their way into a large bathroom.
Draco looks at his surroundings. He seems to be standing in the middle of a dense forest, with large oak trees creating a canopy above his head.
In front of him is an old fashion iron-cast bathtub, situated beside an even more ancient-looking loo in the corner of the room.
Draco’s nose wrinkles at the sight of it, but the girl’s eyes light up.
“Merlin’s knobby knees, am I glad to see you!” She rushes over to the rub and strokes it lovingly. The taps groan, and water spurts from the spout. He looks behind him for a moment to check for any signs of living creatures and shrugs. Suddenly he notices the Weasley girl pulling her jumper over her head, and he flushes.
“What are you doing?” he hisses, averting his eyes when her under shirt joins the jumper discarded on the cold stone floor.
She turns to him and rolls her eyes. “I’m going to take a bath. I thought that was the purpose of this visit.”
“No,” he mumbles, his cheeks feeling even hotter now. “I mean, I’m still in here.”
She laughs, shimmying out of her muggle trousers. “You’ve seen me naked lots of times.”
“I certainly have not!” Draco snips, rubbing his hands along the seam of his slacks.
She laughs, “trust me, you have.”
He still averts his eyes, waiting until he hears the sound of water distilling before looking back. Fuck, Merlin’s arse; why is he blushing? It’s just a Weasley... and yes, she may be a girl, and yes maybe she’s got great tits... okay she’s right fit, but who’s taking stock on these minute details.
Except he’s never seen a girl in her well and true starkers before, and for some reason, he doesn’t want her to know this.
He takes a deep calming breath. Wipes at his clammy hands one last time and slowly turns back around.
Oh, Salazar’s fucking balls. She’s naked.
She’s completely submerged under the water (her hair looks like a red lake monster he’s dreamed about in his nightmares when the lake would give an extra eery lurch or squeal) except for her head and her left arm, which is dangled over the side of the tub as she pats around the ground with her hand.
“It’s in your pocket,” he says, assuming she’s searching for her wand.
She smiles up at him and pulls it out, “thanks.”
She tilts the tip of her wand to her head, muttering something under her breath before a creamy liquid drips out; shampoo.
She sits up fully, and Draco snaps his line of vision to the ground. She has really nice breasts, like the kind you stare at in the rumpled copy of Playwizard you keep stuffed under your mattress. There's an uncomfortable heat crawling up the back of his neck, and he feels like he’s swallowed a Bludger. She laughs warmly at him.
There’s silence for a moment before Draco cracks.
“...So, I do this a lot then, I guess, I, uh, I mean I assume? Seeing you naked, I mean-- us shagging and all.”
She smirks, “yes, you would assume correctly.”
He nods, swallowing deeply. “Are you the only girl I’ve ever slept with?”
She folds her arms on the rimming and rests her chin on top. “Unless you’ve lied to me, then yes, I’m the only girl you’ve ever been with.”
Draco nods, his lips slipping into a scowl before he can even stop them.
Fuck. That means he lost it to the Weasley girl. What the bloody hell happened to Pansy throwing herself at him? She had been keen on him last he could remember. But the Weasley girl was much prettier than Pansy, so maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing in the end...
“Sorry to burst your Lothario dreams,” she says, slightly amused. “You look pretty disappointed.”
He quickly looks away, clawing at his neck with his hand. “I'm still not used to all this, Weasley.”
She sighs, “I told you to stop calling me Weasley.”
He looks back at her and frowns, “I don’t know what else to call you.” The Weasley girl dips behind the rim of the tub, her body floating in the soapy water. Gods, she really does have those awful dirt like freckles everywhere.
“You could try my real name. That might be a good start.” He can hear the sarcasm dripping from her voice.
He paces for a moment, tugging at the fabric of his jumper before he sighs in defeat.
“I... I don’t know your real name,” he looks away, ashamed for some bizarre reason.
She looks at him for a moment, her eyes focusing on him.
“It’s Ginny.”
He meets her eyes. They really are frighteningly wide and brown.
“Ginny,” he repeats.
X
He’s too afraid to find his mother’s portrait. Too afraid to hear what she’d say to him. And besides, here he’s free from her.
He’s his own man.
He doesn’t have to listen to her talks about manners and her nagging at his bad posture and all those other things.
Here, he can be whatever he wants.
XI
It’s a voice that wakes him.
It’s the call of her name ringing through the house, which slips into his unconscious state and rouses him.
“Ginny,”
He can hear it getting louder with every deep cry.
“Ginny,”
He sits up with a bolt, blurrily looking out into the corridor. Ginny’s snoozing against the wall, her cloak pillowing her head.
“Weasley!” he yells, scrambling to get up. “Weasley! Ginny, wake up.”
She rolls her head over his way and squints at him. “Hmm,” she mumbles, half asleep still.
He pushes himself off the chaise to get closer, “do you hear that?” She stares at him confused, her brows sliding together and her small nose wrinkling.
“Ginny, where are you?” The voice calls desperately, sounding closer than ever.
Ginny gasps, her eyes widening as she brings a hand to her mouth. She looks down the corridor and then quickly shoots her gaze back at him.
“Draco,” she says softly, like a dream slipping from her lips. He’s heard her say his name like that before. She turns to him and smiles excitedly. “I told you so! I told you he would come!”
“Draco,” she yells, clambering off the floor and onto her feet. “Draco, I’m here!”
She flings her cloak around her shoulders, her fingers shaking with the clasp.
He watches with a muted look of shock on his face. He’s here. She wasn’t lying. His twenty-two-year-old self is wandering the halls, actually looking for Ginny Weas- Malfoy.
He really is in love with her. Bloody hell.
It’s not until she’s racing down the corridor, does he find his voice. “Wait!” he hollers after her retreating form, “Ginny, wait!”
She whips around, her brown eyes intensely bright and her red hair shining, it seems. She gives him a heartbreakingly beautiful smile.
“Thank you,” she says, tears swim in the corner of her eyes, “you’ve been so wonderful to me. I don’t think I could have survived without you.”
“Where will you go?” he croaks out, taking a step towards her. He doesn’t want to tell her he’ll miss her, doesn’t want her to know she’s the most company he’s had since he’s been here.
Malfoy’s don’t need company.
She smiles, “I don’t know, but I don’t really care.”
He can hear the sound of pounding footsteps now. Her name follows soon after.
“This house is a bloody maze. Gin, where are you?”
She glances anxiously down the corridor and then turns back to him. With a laugh, she wipes at the tears and places a hand against the canvas.
Hesitantly, he reaches out presses his hand against hers. It’s almost like he can actually touch her. He thinks maybe if he closed his eyes and thought hard enough, he could.
“Trust me,” she says. “You love me.”
He nods, slowly pulling back his hand as hers retreats to her side. She smiles at him one last time before hurrying down the hall. Draco watches as a darkly hooded figure bursts into the corridor. His heart lurches in his chest.
Ginny throws her arms around him, her long red hair spilling everywhere and knocks his hood off in the process. His one arm winds tightly around her waist while the other runs through her hair. She hugs him close to her body, rising onto the tips of her toes, and when their heads lean into one another, Draco looks away.
He can’t watch himself kiss the Weasley girl-- it’s just too weird.
When he looks back, it’s to see their retreating forms heading down the rest of the hallway. Their hands clasped together in a vice-like grip.
And as they disappear from his view, Draco’s fleeting thought is:
Great Salazar’s beard, my hair is a fucking mess. That’ll never due.