Portraits
I own nothing, except Renee.
It was her first day at Hogwarts. The day that changed everything she knew about emotions. After that day, everything she had learned was thrown out the window.
Renee stepped though the grand doors into the great hall. Four tables filled with students of all ages beckoned her. She was the first, the first one of her family to walk through these doors. She had nobody to go to for advice, as Hogwarts wasn't exactly your average school. She didn't know what to expect; but she knew one thing. The platinum haired boy was to be avoided.
She stood behind the boy with the scar. She couldn't quite remember his name, but apparently he was well known. Platinum walked up to him, offered him friendship, but was denied. Platinum scowled; apparently he didn't take well to rejection. As he turned back around towards his followers their eyes met for a brief second.
Renee felt something inside her stir. It was unknown. Perhaps it was the lack of breakfast catching up with her.
Or maybe it was something more.
Her thoughts of Platinum halted when her name was called. She squeezed her way past - Potter, was it? And waited. The hat was placed on her auburn locks. She didn't mind which house she was placed, she just silently begged whatever house it was, it was not Slytherin. She wouldn't mind never seeing that boy again.
Without warning the old sorting hat shouted "Gryffindor!" She smiled and sat next to Potter. A girl sitting across from him smiled at her. Introductions were made, and they chatted throughout breakfast. She was glad; she now had friends, something she wasn't very experienced with before coming here.
Most classes were easy for her. Before coming she'd been in a private school. They offered more advanced classes for the children that attended, and when it came to anything with some sort of science background, she passed with ease.
Although, there was that one class. She couldn't see him from where she was placed. But she knew, yes she knew he was there. She figured that feeling on the first day must have been hatred. After her first week, and stories from her three friends, she discovered he was not one to be trusted, let alone one to befriend.
Her back was to him, she shared a table with Hermione. She could practically feel his gaze on her. She came to the conclusion that the feeling was mutual. She never would have guessed that she was wrong.
Her first year went without incident. Despite everything that happened to Potter. The four of them were friends, not best friends. She wasn't always tagging along, so all of the business with the sorcerer's stone didn't involve her. It wasn't like he didn't try. Whenever they would sneak out after curfew to do god knows what, she'd politely decline and sit back in her room, just drawing away.
But she'd never let them know that.
She didn't doodle, that was for little children. She'd be drawing portraits since she could remember. Her drawing skills were very advanced, having learned only from the best. At first she loathed it, hating drawing people. Lately, she'd grown accustomed to it. Since there were so many interesting facing wandering the halls, she'd often find a nice spot in the courtyard to just sit and draw the many faces that walked by.
Or at least, that's what she did most of the time.
His face was the more dominant one in her whole drawing book. For every two different portraits, there were five of him. His expression never changed, at least when he was around her. It was always a frown. She'd grown to believe that it was there permanently. Hate was considered an obsession, and she wasn't giving him up anytime soon.
She'd grown apart from them.
Potter, Granger, and Weasley were their own little trio now; they didn't even bother asking her to go anywhere, for they knew what her answer would be. If they'd only just come and sit with her in her room, and listen to all she didn't, couldn't say, anywhere else.
She was lonely, her only friends her artwork.
He dominated the whole book now. She no longer enjoyed drawing anyone but him. She had a problem, she knew it, but his must've been worse.
At meals her back was always towards him, if it wasn't, she knew she'd stare. Over the past two years he'd matured, as had she. Her once-auburn locks were now brown. His stupid hair was still a stupid shade of stupid platinum.
And those eyes, she couldn't look away. They were her favorite. She despised green, the main reason she never took a liking to Potter the way the red-head's sister had. The beautiful shades of silver all swirled together perfectly. They haunted her dreams.
Each night it was the same. She'd walk into the great hall; at first glance it looked empty. She'd glance around, something obviously wasn't right. No teachers, students, pets, nothing. Then it would happen, the laugh, his hearty laugh. Only used when bullying a poor soul. She could never point out the exact location before he was in front of her. The laugh was gone. That unforgiveable frown etched on his face. They were less than a foot away.
And then she'd get lost.
The eyes reeled her in. Those pools of silver, she couldn't look away, even if she wanted to. Slowly his frown turns into a smile. A smile that means something, unlike the one he wears in public. She can't help but return it.
His left hand cups her face, reeling her in. Their eyes still locked. They're inches, centimeters, millimeters away.
Then it all falls apart. His right hand pulls out his godforsaken wand, and it's at her throat. He beings the unforgiveable phrase, but he only gets as far as her dreams allow, "Avad-"
There hasn't been a night for two years when she hasn't had this dream.
Tonight was no exception.
Their fourth year.
Although uninterested, she listened to Dumbledore's speech about the tournament. She knew who'd be entering, and who wouldn't, her head slowly turning back to her food. She slowly turned her head back to her food, mid-turn, their eyes met.
That's been happening a lot lately.
She no longer refused that it was pure coincidence. She didn't deny the glances she made, after all, he wasn't an eye sore. She wasn't exceptionally beautiful, she knew that. Besides, he could have anyone he wanted, male or female, but why was he always staring?
This time, she didn't look away. She was a Gryffindor after all, and she was brave. Their eyes locked, despite the knowingness shared between them, one could call it awkward. He broke it, and turned the the black-haired girl to his right, and whispered something in her ear with a smirk. The raven-haired girl faced him, and enveloped his lips.
She couldn't stand it.
She left the table without warning, earning a gasp from Hermione, and headed for her room. She promised herself she wouldn't cry, it wasn't like the two were together. They'd only spoken once, when he'd asked what he'd missed in potions a day he was absent due to some accident.
But it hurt the same.
She wasn't sure what she felt toward him now. It definitely wasn't hatred, if it was; she knew it wouldn't have bothered her if the girl kissed him. It couldn't be love; he was an asshole, and a Slytherin. She scowled; disappointed she would even consider the latter.
But she had, and she knew she couldn't pretend she hadn't. A single tear fell from her eyes onto the mass of portraits she held in her hands. There were forty seven. Between her fingers she held forty seven Draco Malfoys. She couldn't recall going to her room, or even ripping them out, but she found herself walking back to the common room.
She sat in front of the fire. She found it odd that there was always a fire, full-blaze, but then again, there was always something odd going on at Hogwarts these days. She wondered what her intentions had been. A part of her wanted nothing more than to burn each and every one of his faces. Another part wanted to keep them, keep them forever.
She looked at them. Despite her young age, she had improved greatly. She realized the newer they got, the more the portrait was smiling, the more it looked as though he cared. But before the new, came the old. The scowls, frowns, and smirks. All at her, otherwise she wouldn't have been able to draw them.
The tears came, she hated them, but they came anyway.
She heard the portrait of the Fat Lady open. It was now or never, either she throw them in, or not. She knew if she didn't do it now, she never would.
She never would find out who came through that door, as she had ran as fast as she could back to her room, all forty seven of him in hand. At least in there her silence charms worked.
That's when the real tears started.