Disclaimer: all the rights belong to J.K. Rowling.
Written for QLFC, round 7. Tornados Chaser 2.
Prompt: Artist's Flame-Dean/Ginny (platonic, romantic or familial)
Optional prompts:
(word) brush
(quote) 'Just have a little faith.'
(dialogue) "You're crazy!" / "Were you ever under the impression that I was normal?"
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Something red
News, it is well-known, travels fast, and even more so when it concerns the Vanquisher of Voldemort and his beloved ones.
That news was no exception and worried to no end the Captain of the Holyhead Harpies, who felt she couldn't allow one of her best players to waste her life by getting married and abandoning Quidditch. No matter if Weasley was going to wed the Savior, Quidditch should always come first. One did not simply abandon her team just to get a family.
Potter may have saved the Wizarding World—included Quidditch, and this was highly to his credit—but that didn't mean that Gilda Fleet liked him, or rather, the idea of him wedding Ginny Weasley, at all. Sure, he was a talented Seeker, but he was still a man.
It couldn't be helped. She needed Ginny Weasley, at any cost.
Red.
To a layperson, that was what her hair was: plain, simple, mere red. He could have spat on that word if ever words were to be spat on. As if she could ever be something even vaguely mere.
Auburn.
Now, this one was slightly more sophisticated and certainly denoted more accuracy.
Still, it was not enough, for to him she deserved much better than a simple "auburn".
He looked down at his color palette once more. He didn't understand; there had always been a wonderful use of browns, reds, yellows, blues in it. Why not now? Not being able to mix the right color had always frustrated him, and this time, he was taking it particularly hard.
Once again, his eyes scanned the room then finally settled on the open window and the burnt orange sky. That, that was the shade he was looking for, the color he wished to lose himself into, the nuance he was having such a hard time to capture.
Once again, he picked up the brush and analyzed the effect of sparingly mixing Cadmium Red with Cadmium Yellow.
He didn't know—refused to admit, to be honest—that he would never, ever, be able to master that right nuance he was looking for. There would always be too red or too yellow in it. And the reason, which he kept well hidden in his heart, was that that magnificent auburn hair would never be his. He had lost it, or rather, her.
Sure, they were good friends, but it wasn't enough.
With a flick of his wand, Dean closed the window shutters, cutting out the dying sunlight.
A few moments later, someone knocked on the door. Whoever it was, they kept pounding on it, as if in a great need or hurry.
Then, her voice came. It was faint and muffled, but he would recognize it everywhere. His heart skipped a beat then speeded up.
"Dean, please. I know you are in there. It's me, Ginny."
She certainly didn't need to tell me that, the young man thought while rushing towards the door.
Her voice went on, whispering, "Please, open. We need to talk. I-I need y–"
Silence.
Then, "I need your advice."
She sounded unsure, worried.
Dean's mind finally managed to get enough control on his fingers which were fiddling with the doorknob—Merlin's sake, why have I left my wand on the table?—and the door busted open.
Two whispers "Ginny!" and "Dean!" came at the same time.
She moved her lips as if to say something more but seemed to reconsider it and swiftly got past her former boyfriend, casually entering his home.
As he caught up with her, Dean couldn't help but stare at those flaming red hair and lovely figure, feeling the desire to capture her beauty on his canvas, but he knew something way more important was going on, so he waited.
He looked at her, taking in her suspiciously red, bright eyes and her furrowed forehead. She looked tired... and hurt.
"We are in troubles," she began.
Are we? he thought.
Her voice dwelled on certain words and got louder, as she explained, "Apparently, some people find it amusing to mess with others' lives. And, more importantly, they act upon their wrong knowledge just to... entertain a whole BUNCH OF IDIOTS."
Dean could only stare.
"Dean, they have pictures. Pictures of us... together... kissing!"
"I know, Ginny. It happened and everyone knows of it, but it's over now. It shouldn't matter. And Harry knows, so..."
She frowned. "Don't you know? Oh, well, I guess not. The thing is, they have pictures of us! They. Have. Pictures. Of. Us. Now. Yesterday. A week ago. I don't know. I don't care. They have pictures of us. Kissing. Now!" She was speaking and gesturing as if he was two, but both of them knew she didn't mean it that way. She was just frustrated and angry... and, possibly, scared. There are some things that even a Gryffindor fears, and mendacity is amongst them.
"Wait. What? How is it possible? Ginny, listen, let me explain. If you came her to blame me, I can ensure you that—"
He knew he still loved her, but not even in his darkest dreams he could think, imagine to... No, that would be beneath him. He could muse about Harry not deserving Ginny—but then, who did?—but he would never, ever, do anything so low and evil such as spreading lies.
"You silly man," she teased. "Of course I don't blame you! I know your heart. You'd never do such a thing. No, it was not either of us. I know it was not you just as well as I know it was not me."
"But still you came here, and now we're here, alone... Well, together, but alone... Don't give me that look; you know what I mean. How could you? Now you're in even more troubles than before. You can't stay here. Are you crazy?"
"Were you ever under the impression that I was normal? Now, that's an interesting piece of news, indeed!"
That weak attempt at humor of hers, though, went lost because Dean was still pouring all of his concerns in an endless flow of words.
"Dean. DEAN!" she screamed. "Calm down, will you? Please. Moreover, I already have enough brothers who tell me what to do and not to do, don't you think?"
She smiled, and that gesture made the young man relax at once. He still had some questions, though.
"So... how? Who? Why?"
She shrugged him off. "Does it matter? In any case, Polyjuice, I'd guess."
Ginny looked at Dean, his eyes, his nose, his cheeks, his lips... She could almost feel those hands, strong and big yet gentle and soft, brushing her skin, stroking her hair.
She felt the urge to be hugged, to have a shoulder where she could hide her eyes while crying. And his huggles were so different from any other's she knew.
Dean understood and carefully encircled her.
She leaned on him and, feeling safe at last, she whispered, "None believes me. They're all sure I betrayed Harry... Well, actually most people insist on saying I betrayed the Chosen One. They don't care about him having a name, a personality, a family... Even my parents and brothers are inclined to believe the Daily Prophet. As if I was capable to do such a horrible thing... Of course, they just tried to be supporting, but when they said I could be with you if I wished... In that moment, I understood they didn't believe me. They don't understand. None does."
Dean felt he did but didn't want to upset her so he didn't say anything.
"... but you, that is," she added, her voice barely audible.
Dean scooped her up, bridal style, and she instinctively wrapped her arms around his neck. She blushed when she realized what they were doing but still held onto him as if her life depended on this.
He gently deposited her on the couch before wrapping her in a blanket and sitting next to her. She just leaned on him once again, her energy gone away.
"Sorry, I didn't know where else to go." She felt Dean deserved some explanation, but he merely nodded before hushing her, "It's alright. Everything is going to be alright. Just have a little faith. Sleep now. I'll handle all of this and give your happiness back to you."
As she fell asleep, comforted by his words, Dean conjured a piece of parchment and a quill to write a note to He-Knew-Who. He would let Ginny go, but he wanted to be sure that Harry deserved to be happy with her and didn't hurt her. No matter how many siblings each of them already had, she would always be his little sister to cherish and protect.
Three days later, Dean was walking with a big smile on his face.
On the front page of the Daily Prophet which sat on his desk, plain for everyone to see, there were two pictures, one portraying Ginny in a white dress kissing Harry, and the other portraying Dean and Harry toasting to each other.
Three weeks later, Dean's smile was even wider. On the third page of the newspaper, there was a long article signed by Ginny Potter.
He pressed the brush on the canvas and watched in awe as it seemed to capture every nuance, and the colors effortlessly came to life.
Three years later, Dean's smile couldn't be restrained as he proudly portrayed his wife, his newborn daughter and her godmother, Ginny, whose hair on the canvas, everyone agreed to say, was just the perfect shade. Never before had a painter captured colors as well as he did.
Finally, all was bright.
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Thank you for reading :) I hope you enjoyed this story!