A Night the Stars Didn't Shine

One More Reason to Live

Virginia Isabelle Weasley celebrated her nineteenth birthday in her room, going through Draco's sketchbook. She had every feature of her sixteen year old face memorized; every freckle, every stray strand of hair that Draco had captured on paper was now etched into her mind. She idly flipped through it; never failing to be surprised by his talent each time her eyes settled on a sketch.

She opened her presents in the family living room in front of the rest of her family: Bill and Fleur, Charlie, Percy and Penelope, Fred, George and Katie, and Ron and Hermoine. Their warm smiles failed to reach her heart and the new canvases that they had given her sat by her dresser drawers, gathering dust. She had given the rest of the paint to her younger nieces and nephews and they had covered the walls and furniture with hues of fiery red and water blue.

Ginny had stopped painting. She had lost the motivation, the sheer will to put brush to canvas. She had lost her love of it, her want to paint scenes of beauty. She had lost her will to paint, mourning Draco. For over a year, Ginny led a life without meaning, refusing to pick up a brush. Life meant meaning, meaning had love, and love had only served to break her heart.

The Daily Prophet had declared a week earlier that Draco was dead and that there was no way that he could still be alive. His room at his father's manor lay in shambles: his wand was snapped in half, his clothing shredded to strips, and a bloody knife was found at his windowsill. The blood was almost sure to be his. A body hadn't been located, and the Ministry was resorting to muggle methods to find it, since he could no longer be located using magic. Wizards around the world whispered to one another, each with a theory and a murderer. Lucius Malfoy was reluctant to admit, but a year after the first article of his disappearance, Draco Edward Malfoy was declared dead, and a memorial service would be held for him on July fifth at St. Nicholas' Cemetery. The ceremony will would begin at two-o'-clock in the afternoon and was expected to last until five that night.

~

She looked down at Ron's old silver wristwatch. She knew where St. Nicholas' Cemetery was; Grandfather Weasley was buried there. The sky was overcast, gray clouds blocking the sunlight. The Prophet 'foretold' that it would rain today, and the prediction didn't look to be too far off. She wiped her eye as a tear slid down her cheek and splashed onto her robe.

She walked out of her house, telling her mother that she was just going around for a little walk and Ron that she was off to visit a friend from Hogwarts. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had both noticed a change in their daughter, she was quieter and detached to everything that went on in the Weasley household. She was moving habitually, doing things she only did from routine. She refused to paint, and spent most of her time either locked in her room or outside, under the oak tree, staring out into space.

Ginny waited until it was almost five, then apparated to the cemetery entrance. People were streaming out in fine black or forest green robes. They didn't talk, but they weren't weeping in grief, either. In fact, she seemed to be the only one who was actually mourning. Several of Draco's old classmates were there, Pansy, who looked better than she had in school, was wearing a black skirt and top and a black cloak, she had red-rimmed eyes and was talking to a rather handsome man with jet black hair, Marcus Flint.

Blaise Zabini was standing off on the side, subdued and distanced from the crowd around her. She was wearing a long, stylish black dress and a black cloak with sliver roses embroidered at the bottom that swirled around her black leather boots. Her black hair was in ringlets around her face and trailed around her head like a black halo. Blaise hadn't changed as Pansy and Marcus had, she was still as beautiful as she had been, still as unpopular as she had been, still as indifferent as she had been.

She looked right at Ginny. Ginny fidgeted uncomfortably, running a hand through her red ponytail, before quickly stopping and flipping up her hood. The former Slytherins might not recognize her face, but they would surely recognize her hair.

She walked off to the side, blindly tripping over gravestones that protruded from the ground in dried overgrown grass, looking for anyone that was looking at her. She hurried to the back, where the newest graves were placed. She hid behind a tree for a while, then stood in front of a tall headstone that read 'William J. Morton, noted wizard and father', pretending to pay Mr. Morton his respects as the last mourners who weren't really mourning streamed out.

She stepped from behind her hiding spot when the last chattering woman walked away and looked for Draco's monument. It was easy to spot, in the last row of the cemetery. A granite statue of a Chinese Fireball dragon marked Draco's little plot of land, its ferocious stony whiskers flared out and eyes glaring at the young woman as she approached the monument. She looked at it and its eyes flashed at her. The monument lay between a dull black oblisdisk angel with blank eyes, whose hand was open as though she would reach out and grab Ginny, and a worn brick in the ground dedicated to Tom Riddle Sr. which was almost covered by dry, overgrown grass.

Ginny laid a bare cold hand on it as she sat on its base near the sharp stone talons. The wind blew off her hood and stung her ears. She felt cold and alone.

"Hullo Draco," she began awkwardly. She closed her eyes, trying to imagine the dragon as though it were Draco himself. "Damnit!" she cursed softly. "I feel so stupid, trying to talk to a dragon like it's you. I suppose that the paper was actually telling the truth for once. You're really gone, aren't you? I'll miss you a great deal, you know. I wanted to let you know on the train before you left, but I never really got around to saying the words, but I hope...

"I hope you knew that I love you during the short time I knew that I did." She wiped tears from her eyes and hurriedly changed her monologue to something that wouldn't make her cry as fast.

"I missed you last year. It was rather boring at Hogwarts without you. No one to get mad at and no one to fantasize kissing, and certainly no one to paint, seeing as you were my only subject." She laughed without humor but stopped when she heard a voice from the other side of the statue.

She peered out from behind a stone claw, looking down the aisle to where the voice was coming from. A boy with black hair and baggy black pants was sitting on the ground, talking with enthusiasm to a black grave that stood in front of him. A large stone snake, carved onto it, was slithering up one side.

He wore a black shirt and a metal necklace, and a baseball cap on his head that was backwards. A skateboard, wheels up, lay next to him. He was smiling as if the grave was a real person, his eyes reflecting pure white light. Drawing up her knees to her as close as possible, she stopped speaking, waiting patiently for the other person to leave.

"It was great, Grandfather. I wish you could've seen me; I was doin' ollies on the rails and even flipped my board over once and landed on it correctly. Course, I promptly fell and bruised my side. The guys at the park got load of a laugh off of it. It's still a tad sore, seeing how it has to heal the muggle way. My arm still hurts too, from the Mark. It's been sore for over a year, and I can't go to no muggle physician, seein' how they'll ask what it is. It felt like thousands of needles piercing my skin. Sometimes," he confided to the grave, "I wake up at night in my apartment and can still feel it," he said with a faint English accent. He cleared his throat.

"The Ministry's gone in a frenzy looking for me, grandfather. They've convinced Father to declare me dead, finally; it's been a year. I just missed my memorial service. Ha, those damned fools didn't even give 'the stupid teenager with the skateboard' a second glance; they all think that I'm dead.

"In truth, Grandfather, I died a long time ago. A girl at Hogwarts broke my heart and it's been like that ever since. I could never tell anyone because she was a Gryffindor, a Weasley - even - Grandfather. You're probably the only person I've actually told, ever. Her name was Virginia," he trailed off as if in a trance. Ginny stopped breathing. Her name was Virginia, she was a Weasley and was in Gryffindor, and she attended Hogwarts. Why was this punk talking about her? "She was so beautiful, Grandfather. Her hair was like the red rubies that Grandmere used to wear before Father murdered her, and her skin was like white snow with soft brown freckles. Her eyes were like the chocolate that mum used to send me at school. I sketched her everyday in the school library and one time she bumped into me and found my book..." he trailed off sadly.

"I died that day, Grandfather."

Ginny's eyes opened wide. Draco. That boy, that punk with the black hair and earring, that was Draco. The day in the library, the incident in the snowy courtyard, the event on the melted spot of snow, the train ride back in her sixth year, it all came back to her. She bit her thumbnail as her brain began to process the pieces of information.

And to keep from screaming out.

"Course, I never told anyone. A Malfoy never shows any weakness, that's what Father - your son - used to tell me. But I couldn't help the feeling I got whenever I thought of her. I watched her when she boarded the train this year. It seemed that she only got more beautiful than last year. Ginny made me want to change, made me want to be good. So that's why I ran away. Blaise, God bless her, helped me dye my hair and is helping me find a job in America. I owe her big time.

"Anyway, I stopped by to see you before I left. I'm moving to America, have my papers and passes all ready, along with a new life in a country where will no one will question a skater punk with an English accent, and a small amount of money, muggle and magical, in a bank account. I'll need to purchase all new things, seeing as I had to leave them behind, especially a new wand. I'll visit you sometimes, I hope, Grandfather. As always, it's been a pleasure talking with you, you've been an excellent listener while I've babbled endlessly," he said, standing up and brushing himself off. He grabbed his skateboard and apparated away with a faint pop.

Ginny released her hold on her thumb and wiped it on her robe. The teeth marks were deep and purple from pressure, the area around it bright red. Her body was numb with shock and her heart beat wildly. Her cheeks were flushed and her ears were boiling. Above her, the gray skies opened a sliver and a silver lining appeared as a small stream of light trailed down.

Ginny got up shakily and looked at the dragon, deliriously happy. "Thank you," she said to the dragon, "Thank you, oh so much!"

Then she apparated away with a faint pop.

She stopped in bustling Diagon Alley, full of witches and wizards, and ducked into a small dingy shop, Art Supplies and More. The shop smelt faintly of musk and oils, and it was dimly lit by a few tastefully picked ceiling lights. It was fairly warm, in a cozy sense, with wood floors and paneling.

It was her first visit in almost a year. She hurried over to the oil paints section and picked up a colorful new set of oil paints and some white veela-hair brushes that were on sale. She smiled heartily at everyone in the store, walking up to the counter of the small shop slowly, weaving her way around displays of clay and canvases that towered above her. She waved at employees that she recognized, and they smiled back.

"Ginny!" exclaimed a voice from behind the counter. A witch wearing denim overalls that were covered in splotches of paint hurriedly rushed through the small counter-high swinging door and hugged Ginny. "I haven't seen you in almost a year! Where have you been? Not shopping down at that new art store down the alley I hope."

Ginny smiled. Melinda Bronswiler was the proprietor of Art Supplies and More and an amateur sculptor herself. Melinda looked old enough to be Ginny's mother, with brown corkscrew curls and welcoming blue eyes. Her smile brightened up the shop and her energy radiated around her. "No," Ginny said with a gentle smile. "I didn't even know there was a new art store."

"You didn't? Well then, forget I mentioned it," Melinda said with a laugh. "Where have you been, Ginny? I've been trying to get hold of you for weeks, but your parents say you're busy," she said in a more concerned voice.

"I've been rethinking art," Ginny replied as they walked to the counter. "I wasn't sure if I really wanted to paint anymore."

Melinda's mouth hung open in an expression of shock. She closed it. "Ginny, you were made to paint."

"I was having a tough time, and it all seemed to be because of a painting I did, so I really started to wonder..." Ginny trailed off, blushing. Melinda began to ring up the items she had purchased.

"Well, that's what I wanted to talk to you about," Melinda began.

"My paintings? What about them?"

"Three weeks ago, a man walked into my store. He noticed the painting hanging in the storefront window, the one with the little boy selecting an owl from the pet shop. He asked if there were any more by the painter, and I said yes. By the way," she added, "That will be five Sickles and three Knutts." She bagged Ginny's purchases as Ginny dug around in her pants for money. She handed six dull silver sickles over to Melinda and held her hand out for change. "I showed him the one of the Quidditch match with an apple, and the one with the landscape out of a window sill."

Ginny looked at her and blinked slowly, processing the information. Those were her paintings that Melinda had bought from her. She nodded her head, urging Melinda to continue. Melinda handed over a small bag with her newly purchased paints and brushes.

"The man asked me who the artist was, was she local, was she a witch, you know, all those sorts of things." Ginny nodded. "I said that you were the artist, and of course, I used 'Virginia' since it's much more elegant 'Ginny', that you were local, a witch, and fresh out of Hogwarts."

"Who is he?" Ginny wanted to know. For a fleeting second, she thought that Melinda would say Draco, or describe him. But from the happy expression on Melinda's face, she knew that it wasn't.

"Micah Agustus. He said that he was the owner of several galleries around the world, and wanted to get in touch with you. He also gave me his card, which he asked me to pass along to you. I said I would."

Melinda opened a drawer under the cash register and rummaged around in it. "Ah ha!" she said triumphantly, handing the card over to Ginny. She flung it into her bag and it landed on top of the box of paints.

"Don't you know what this means, Ginny dear?!" Melinda said excitedly. Ginny didn't, and stood still, uncertain. "This Micah Agustus guy wants to have a gallery exposition and feature your art work! He wants you to pursue a career as a professional painter!"

Ginny blinked, and a smile slowly made its way across her pink lips. It spread, and for the first time in a year, reached her eyes. "I'd better go, Melinda," she said. "I have someone to contact."

Melinda smiled, and shooed her away. "I expect a gallery invitation," she said sternly. Ginny laughed and agreed.

She walked away as though she was in a blissful trance and strolling on air. On her way to the door, she stopped to help a girl, about twelve, with a black braid, pick out a sketchbook, a brown one with leather binding and gold edged pages.

~*~*~

Author's Note

: This is not the end of the story. I mean, well... it's the end of this story, but not the end of the story. Can you say sequel?

A brief synopsis:

Three years after Draco's disappearance, Ginny holds her first art premiere in New York. Wizards, witches, and muggles from all over the world will be appearing at the premiere, including Daemon Marks, an art teacher and resident of Los Angeles. He comes not to claim a painting, but to claim someone he lost three years ago, someone who knew him as Draco Malfoy.

A tidbit of the new story:

"You should come, Daemon," Blaise urged him with a slight French accent as she rubbed her hands through his hair.

"Blaise, you know that art premiers aren't my thing anymore," he protested for what must've been the twentieth time as the water ran through his hair. He had all but lost his sophisticated British accent trying to assimilate into the United States and the guys at the skating park.

"I designed the dress that the artist will be wearing tonight. It's simply gorgeous."

"Talented little bugger you are. Glad Potter picked a smart little cookie like you to marry," he had replied dryly. She smiled down at him, her purple eyes shining brightly.

"What about me?" Harry asked, pushing his naturally jet black hair out of his emerald eyes as he stepped into the back door the salon. "Oh, hullo Draco."

"Daemon," he heard himself correctly automatically, looking from his spot in the sink to see if anyone else had heard him.

"Right. Hullo Daemon," he said. "Back again for a hair dye?"

"No, Potter, I'm hear for a bleaching. Of course I'm here for a hair dye!"

"Aww... you're just mad because you're hair isn't naturally black, like moi's," Harry said with an exaggerated French accent. Unlike his wife, he hadn't lost his British accent, preserving it by playing Quidditch for the English World team. "Hey, are you going to the art premiere tonight?" he asked, washing his hands in the sink next to his.

Daemon rolled his eyes. "No," he declared, "For the last time, I am not going to the friggen art premiere tonight in posh, upscale New York."

"Why?" he asked, turning the ceramic dials off and drying them off in plush Egyptian fabric towels.

"One, because I am a lowly art teacher who doesn't belong in a museum as 'renowned' as The New York Museum of Modern Art or wherever that bloody premiere is being held..

Two, because some infamous Death Eaters reside in New York and could well be attending the gallery tonight, and if you two remember correctly, you're helping me hide from them and I have been living incognito for three years.

Three, I'm bum broke because I'm an art teacher and have no clothes, and if I did, I would've probably forgotten how to put them on, it's been so long since I've had to wear them.

Four, not only did I swear off art other than teaching, Weasette stole my book. Not stole, exactly, but she has it and I don't. And reason number five," Daemon paused for a dramatic effect before continuing, ticking his fingers off as he counted them, "I. Don't. Want. To. Go."

"Weren't you madly in love with the little Weasette who 'stole your book'?" Blaise asked. Daemon smirked proudly and Harry glanced up with raised eyebrows.

"I was and still am madly and insanely in love with Virginia Isabelle Weasley. Why do you ask?" Blaise only shrugged with a mysterious look in her eyes.

"Oh, but hun," Harry said, talking to his wife, "Isn't that artist a new one?"

"She sure is. She's a real doll, don't you agree?" Harry nodded. "I knew that Ginny Weasley always had some kinda talent in her, but I never thought that it'd be in painting."

'Stupid idiot,' Daemon thought. 'The girl liked you for six years and you didn't know that she painted? Hold on. How did Ginny get into the conversation?'

"What the hell are you guys talking about?" Daemon asked. "Why? Is Ginny going to be at the premiere tonight too? And Blaise? Can you trim a little off the sides?"

"Certainly, Mr. Marks," Blaise said, looking down as she toweled his now jet black hair, "And Ginny? Why, she's the artist."

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