It was the last thing she had expected to hear him say. Never in a million years could she have imagined those words coming out of his mouth, and certainly they would never have been addressed to her. She wondered what would happen if she said yes. Would a group of Slytherins jump out and laugh at her, taking her picture and her dignity? Would Malfoy laugh at her and say no? Was it a set up? Or worse, would she like it?

"Yes," she told him, gathering all her courage and locking her eyes with his.

He nodded slowly, and for a moment Ginny wondered if all he wanted was the answer, not the kiss. She was almost ashamed of herself for the disappointment that washed through her. "Then come here," he said.

In that moment, time stood still.

Ginny stood to her feet, moving across the small space between them with the same faux-unafraid determination she used while giving oral presentations in her classes. Stopping in front of him, Ginny wondered if he was going to stand up or if he expected her to lean down. There would be no leaning down, she decided. That was far too close to straddling him, a thought that made her uneasy.

Before she could ask him to stand, he was on his feet in front of her, the space between them instantly nonexistent.

She felt his breath against her skin and despite its heat, shivers rolled down her spine, reminding her of the snowflakes that she had felt while drawing him earlier that day. Ginny was terrified that looking up at him would cause the moment to end, so she let her eyelids flutter downward and concentrated on just feeling. Suddenly she felt the ethereal touch of his hand moving across her jaw as his fingertips skated over her, and she sucked in a sharp gasp of air. That same hand pressed against the sensitive skin of her neck before his fingers tangled in the back of her hair gripping it just enough to get a reaction from her as he tilted her head back.

When Draco Malfoy's lips brushed hers, the sensation was so light and so brief, Ginny wondered if she imagined it. She peeked at him, discovering that he was so close to her if she blinked they might touch. Up close she could see that his eyelashes were much paler than the rest of him. They were lighter than his hair and longer than seemed fair for a male to have. Then his lips moved against hers again, and this time she remembered to kiss back.

At first his skin was light as feathers as it moved against hers and it felt so nice that Ginny didn't hesitate to drape her arms over his shoulders and lace her fingers together at the back of his neck. The kisses were soft, gentle and slow – pecks almost – one, then two and then three. There was a second of hesitation after the third one, and much to Ginny's surprise, she didn't want it to end. She let one hand explore the soft skin of his neck and moved the other slowly down his back, her fingertips tracing his spine until she reached the hem of his shirt, and without giving it any thought, let them disappear beneath it, savoring the warmth of his bare skin.

That was all it took to stir him back into action. His mouth found hers again, pressing harder this time while his tongue moved across her lower lip, exploring it before seeking out the inside of her mouth. A low moan rumbled in the back of Ginny's throat as she tasted him, savoring the sweetness of it. He tasted like his drink and like cinnamon.

The hand that wasn't tangled in her hair moved down to her shoulder, then across her arm, sending all the nerves in her skin into a frenzy of fire and desire.

She could have kissed him for hours.

But when he moved his mouth to her jawline, then across her neck and ear, Ginny let out a heated gasp that echoed the sudden blaze sweeping through her, threatening to consume her. She was more than willing to get lost inside that kiss, to let his soft lips keep moving across her skin, to let his hands wander over her, but as her fingers tightened against his bare back the fraction of a millimeter of space that had been between them vanished. The realization that she was pressed so tightly against Draco Malfoy – and enjoying it – hit her like a hippogriff to the chest and her eyes flew open.

The last time she had kissed someone it had ended disastrously. "Shite," she hissed, pulling away from him. "I have to, um…" She couldn't finish her sentence. Instead she bolted from the room, not even bothering to shut the door behind her. She didn't stop until she was almost back to the Gryffindor common room. Ginny allowed herself a moment to lean against the cold stone wall and catch her breath. She screwed her eyes shut, but the image of Draco Malfoy popped into her head and she was instantly lost in the memory of their kiss. She shook her head to clear her thoughts and listened carefully, mostly grateful that she didn't hear any footsteps behind her, then went to plead with the Fat Lady to let her in.

It wasn't until the next afternoon that Ginny realized that not only had she not gotten her self-portrait back but she had also left her entire sketchbook lying on the floor of Malfoy's room.

Ginny groaned loudly into the silence of her dorm room. She'd spent the day carefully planning her trips to the Great Hall in an effort to avoid Malfoy, so she wasn't about to go demand her sketches back. That could wait until she felt a little less humiliated. Three months ago she would have found the idea of flirting with Draco Malfoy extremely entertaining. What could have been better to torment Harry with? But, to her surprise, she no longer cared what Harry thought; the idea of tormenting him wasn't fun anymore. Harry would be around her family for the rest of his life and eventually, they could probably be friends again. It would be a few years down the road, she could handle that.

Ginny's plan worked for several days but on the fourth day after their kiss, Draco was in the Great Hall, sitting at the long table, his head bent over a book.

She was grateful that she had come down to the Hall with a group of Gryffindors, even if they were all younger than her and she barely knew their names. She doubted he would speak to her in front of them.

Not only did Malfoy not speak to her, he never even looked up from his text book and much to Ginny's annoyance, disappointment washed through her. She gathered her food, deciding she could take it to go, and left the Great Hall casually, despite wanting to run away from him again.

Heading straight for the classroom where the extracurricular art group kept their supplies, Ginny hoped the art professor wouldn't mind. She couldn't draw, but she needed the release that came from creating something new. She had only taken up art seriously a little more than a year ago. At first it had been a way not to think about what she'd done the summer before her sixth year and how stupid she had been. Everything was dark and angry, but the art professor had discovered her hiding from the Carrow's and commented on how good the drawings were. After that Ginny began putting more effort into what she created, trying to expand her emotions. She discovered that she couldn't talk about what had happened – or what was happening during the war – but she could draw and feel better afterward.

Ginny sank to the floor of the art classroom, inhaling deeply, trying to find the calm that she almost always received from just being in that room. She unwrapped her Cottage Pie slowly, trying to concentrate on her breathing. But even as she tried to focus on eating and not thinking, all Ginny could think about was Malfoy and their kiss, the fact that he still had her art pad and worst of all, how much it bothered her that he hadn't even given her a passing glance in the Great Hall.

The last thing she wanted was to develop any sort of feelings for anyone. Especially someone who wouldn't return them.

Dean had tried. Michael had too. Even sweet, quiet Terry Boot. But she just wasn't interested. Then, she had been so hurt and so ashamed of herself. Now, she just wanted to find herself before she even thought about finding someone else.

She pushed the half-eaten pie tin away from her, glancing around the room frantically. The cabinet that held the charcoal pencils she loved so much was locked, and she didn't quite feel desperate enough to open it with her wand. She wasn't even certain she wanted the charcoal since that was what had gotten her into the predicament in the first place. She grabbed at the jars of paint, lined up neatly along a ledge and dropped them carelessly into her satchel, knowing they were charmed not to break. Much to her frustration, Ginny couldn't find any canvases. If she used magic to unlock the closet where she suspected they were, the art professor would ask her what she had painted, and she had the feeling it wasn't going to be anything she wanted to share.

Ginny considered letting out a scream of frustration, but instead she picked up the satchel and hurried up the narrow, winding stone steps that led to her tower. No one ever went up there. It was the perfect canvas.

Using her wand to clean any dirt and debris from the round wall, Ginny stepped back, trying to decide how much of a canvas she needed. The entire thing. The thought popped into her head with no warning, but it seemed right. There was so much building up inside of her that she couldn't keep suppressed for much longer. Ginny lined up the paint jars on the ground in front of her, glad that magical paint went a lot further than the Muggle stuff she had worked with before. It was then she realized that she had forgotten brushes, but it didn't seem important.

Picking up the jar of white paint, she held it tightly and flung the paint at the wall, watching with satisfaction as it covered the walls, running down unevenly. Perfect. She used her wand to spread it, drawing the paint out until it concealed most of the gray of the stones.

She stood perfectly still, refusing to cast a warming charm despite the snow that was gently falling around her. She wanted to feel everything, and she tried to convince herself that if she would let her guard down, just for now, she could get it all out and over with. Closing her eyes, she attempted to sort through everything that was threatening to consume her.

Ginny reached down, grabbing the jar of black paint. It was a black that could have been taken straight from the depths of the Forbidden Forest it was so deep. It was a colour that light simply would not penetrate; instead, it absorbed whatever was in the area, taking it in and covering it, leaving nothing. There had been a time when she'd wanted to cover herself in it just to see if she would disappear. She held the jar for a moment, trying to see if it was the right colour for what she was feeling.

"Fred."

It was the first time she'd said his name aloud since the funeral and it hit her so hard she nearly dropped the paint. Ginny took the time to recover, certain that this was the colour she needed. She dipped her hand into the jar, letting the paint cover her skin before stepping up to the wall, using her hands to trace the outline of Fred's face. She knew that face so well she didn't even have to think about it as she painted, using wide strokes to complete his jawline, his nose, mouth, the outline of his eyes and then his hair.

She wasn't how long the process even took her, but when she stepped away to look at it, the jar of black paint was almost empty and Fred's face filled the section of the wall. Ginny tried to swallow down the lump that was heavy in her throat but it was too late – tears were already streaming freely down her face. Except for the eyes, the painting of his face that was taller than her looked exactly like him. She just couldn't bring herself to fill in his eyes and bring him back to life. It would be too painful. Instead Ginny left them blank and hollow so they could match the empty space his death had left inside of her.

Wiping her hands on her jeans with no regard for the paint, Ginny picked up the jar of red liquid and poured some of the paint into the black, mixing it gently with her hands until she could see the red swirled in with the black. She didn't want to mix it completely; there was no point with a black that deep. She wiped her hands again before reversing the charm that made the jar unbreakable. When the red swirled through the black just enough to look like someone had cut their skin and bled in the paint, Ginny eyed the blank space above Fred's face, aimed and threw the jar.

It exploded loudly, paint and glass splattering violently across the wall. As it began to run down, small streaks cutting through Fred's face, she froze the paint with her wand. She wiped her tears away with the back of her hand and stepped back to survey her work. The splinters of glass glittered in the dying light and even the snowflakes that fell seemed to be part of it, drifting down like tears from Fred's face. The red and black swirls looked like exactly blood and destruction and death; from behind them, Fred's face still peered blankly out at her.

Ginny sank to her knees, suddenly cold and exhausted. She'd gone to the Great Hall for lunch but now the sun was quickly disappearing behind the horizon. She sat still a moment longer, feeling better despite how tired she had become.

Art was only offered as an outside of class club at Hogwarts, but Ginny couldn't help wondering if she would be able to do something with it after she finished her schooling. While she wasn't sure if anyone would want to purchase a glass splattered portrait of her dead brother, she knew that she was good at what she did. Lying back on the cold stone floor, Ginny let herself think about Fred. She remembered the times they had ganged up on Percy, the jokes and tricks he had taught her, the magical shortcuts he'd shown her involving house chores, the petty arguments they'd had and of course, his death. It had changed everything. She had lost part of herself that day. Sometimes she thought it was a miracle that George managed to keep living without him.

When the sun disappeared completely, leaving Ginny in darkness, she sat up again, relief filling her. Now, she could move on.

No one ever came up to her tower, and there weren't enough students at the school for the holidays for her to worry about, so Ginny sealed the paint jars, gathered her wand and satchel, then hurried out of her tower.

She hadn't realized how cold she was until the warmth of the castle hit her. Just as she stepped off the winding stairs, she stopped short to avoid colliding with Malfoy.

He looked her up and down, running his eyes all over her.

Ginny knew she was a sight, with paint all over her clothes and skin, red eyes and tear streaks, but she wasn't going to let him know she cared. She simply side stepped him and kept walking towards the Great Hall.

The next morning Ginny woke just before the sun rose. She didn't know why, as she had stayed up late, tossing and turning while she tried to work out what she was going to paint next. While her mind tried to convince her that painting Malfoy was the next step, she wasn't so sure. She had no connection to him, nothing other than recent humiliation, so she couldn't see the point of adding him to her makeshift canvas.

Unable to fall back asleep, Ginny rolled from her bed to pulled on the same pants from the day before, noting that the elves had tried to get the paint stains out but failed, and tugged a cozy blue hoodie over her head. She yawned loudly on her way to the girl's loo, brushed her teeth and washed her face before climbing out the portrait hole, her satchel slung over her shoulder.

She sat on the floor of the tower, her back towards the painting of Fred as she sipped coffee. Somehow she had expected that with the night's sleep, his face staring at her from the wall would be less powerful.

It wasn't.

She chose to ignore it that day, but she still couldn't decide what to paint so she ate slowly, enjoying the waffles she had brought up for breakfast. Only McGonagall was in the Great Hall that early, and she had given Ginny a curt nod, asking if she was enjoying the holidays. Ginny finished the waffles but still no great art epiphany arrived.

Instead of sitting there wasting daylight, Ginny uncapped all the paint jars and stuck her fingers in them, running the colours across the lower stones, experimenting with blending. While she loved the boldness of the colours, she missed the simplicity of her charcoal. With the charcoal she had to work harder to make things come to life.

Ginny had just gotten lost in the rhythm of colouring the stones when she heard the door open behind her. She whirled around, guilt written all over her face. Magic could remove her work but it was still defacing school property.

But it was only Malfoy.

Ginny scowled at him before brushing her hair back and returning to her work.

Her concentration was broken; she could feel him behind her, watching her. She coloured in one more stone, dragging her fingers through the deep green paint to give the block even more texture, and then turned around to face him again. "Did you bring my book?"

"No," he told her mildly, looking at the blocks. "It's still in my room."

"Then what do you want?" She used the back of her hand to wipe at a smudge of paint on her cheek that she could see out of the corner of her eye.

"I came up here last night," he continued, stepping closer to her, "after I saw you in the hall. I wanted to see what you were doing."

"Now you see it," she told him crossly. "So go away." She cursed herself again for being foolish enough to kiss him. She didn't like being around him; it made her constantly alert for the impending punch line she assumed was coming.

"No." He turned his back to her, studying her portrait of Fred. He looked out of place in her mess of colours. His obviously expensive jeans were faded blue and his shirt was plain and black, standing out sharply against his skin.

Just like my charcoal, she thought, momentarily dreamy.

"I thought I knew what loss was," he said, his voice so low she strained to hear him. "But I saw this and I realized I had no idea." He turned back around, but he didn't look at her. "This is good. Amazing even. It hurts just to look at it. How do you get all of that into paint? And glass?"

She just stared at him. "How could you know anything at all about loss?"

He tilted his head ever so slightly, meeting her eyes. "Your mother killed my aunt. I lost my godfather. And Crabbe. My parents are both in Azkaban. I've lost things."

Somehow, Ginny had managed to forget that she wasn't the only one who had suffered.

"I didn't love my aunt. She was completely mental. And Snape... he was different. But it was still loss. I didn't feel this though," he told her, his voice matter-of-fact, as he motioned to her portrait. "I don't ever want to feel that."

"I didn't know your parents were in Azkaban," she told him finally. "Is that why you're back here?"

He nodded curtly. "Not my idea. The Ministry's. I suppose they think they can keep a better eye on me while I'm here."

It seemed like the time to tell him she was sorry, but she wasn't. "Why are you talking to me?"

"I told you. You're the most interesting person here."

"Considering there are not very many people here, I don't think that's a compliment." She stuck her hand back in the green paint jar.

"I think you could be the most interesting person I've ever known," Malfoy said slowly, shoving his hair out of his eyes. "You're nothing like I imagined. I didn't know you could draw. I still don't know why you chose to draw me." A small smile tilted up the corners of his mouth. "And I had no idea you were such an amazing kisser."

Ginny fought back the urge to turn bright red. "And I have no idea why you would want to kiss me."

"And I have no idea why you ran out of the room and haven't even looked in my direction once."

"I looked at you in the Great Hall yesterday," she blurted out. "You didn't look at me." Ginny shook her head, running her hand over the cold stones, painting the green into a wider canvas. She wanted to be angry that he was up here interrupting her work, but instead she found that she was calm, suddenly relaxed. She could feel it now; the painting would take on a life of its own and go places she had never intended to explore. She loved that feeling.

"I looked at you," he told her, moving closer until he was standing right beside her. "I always look at you."

"Why are you telling me this?" she asked, dipping the fingers of her left hand into the jar of purple paint and rubbing her hands together, making the green of her canvas grow. "Aren't you supposed to be all mysterious and cold-hearted?"

"Aren't you supposed to be a good Gryffindor? Not one who goes around painting the walls of the school, kissing blokes in their dorm or making nude sketches of your exes?"

She let out a small laugh, mixing yellow into the center of her painting. "I suppose so."

There was silence as she lightened the green with yellow, suddenly realizing what she was painting.

"So why do you?"

Ginny was almost positive it wasn't the snow that sent chills rolling across her skin as he spoke. "Why do I what?" she asked, even though she was certain she knew what he was getting at. "You asked a lot of things."

"Why did you run out of my room?" He was still facing her new painting, but he was standing so close to her that each time she moved to paint the wall their arms touched.

"Because I didn't know why you wanted to kiss me. And because it just seemed wrong somehow. We don't exactly have a cheerful history, not with our family and our friends."

"But we don't have a history," he said persistently. "Not the two of us. Besides, it didn't seem like anything even remotely close to wrong."

"Is this some sort of set up?" she asked him sharply. "I swear to Merlin if it is-"

"No. It's not. I just wanted to get to know you." He took a small step away from her and if she hadn't been paying attention, she might not have noticed the dejected look that flashed briefly across his face. "Never mind."

"Can you blame me for being skeptical?"

"I suppose not."

"What do you want to know about me?"

"Right now I want to know what you're painting."