Author’s Note:

This fic has really been a personal amusement more than anything, a plot bunny that came to be during a much-loved Art History class. Before reading this fic, I recommend Google Image searching – and maybe even researching – “Judas Kiss” by Giotto, “Pieta” by Picasso, “Madonna With the Long Neck” by Parmigianino, and “Pieta” by Van Gogh. I only say this so you might familiar yourself with the imagery that inspired this strange little story.

The Pieta




A savage place! As holy enchanted
As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
- Samuel Coleridge, “Kubla Khan”.



He pauses in a moment of reflection before he actually starts, as he always does. There’s just something about a blank page, he muses, that’s frightening. It’s easy to lose yourself there in the emptiness, once the realisation of infinite possibility dawns on you. You could create something of unfathomable beauty as easily as you could something terrible and horrific. Or it could be lifeless and dull, which he concludes is the worst outcome of all. He licks his lips in concentration and the paper sighs as the charcoal slides by and marks her as his.

*****

She rises quietly from the folds on the floor and silkily sneaks up behind him, dawning the sheet around the both of them as a cloak. He is so absorbed in his work that he doesn’t even waver as she pushes herself up against his back and presses a gentle kiss at the base of his neck. He smells of linseed oil and turpentine, not that she minds. He has a red smear across his chin, not that he cares. He only stares at the tablet, eyes narrowed. Ginny follows gaze to what he is scrutinising, recognising that look for one she’d seen many – too many – times before.

Oh, yes, Draco is good at a lot of things, though he likes few of them. Painting, however, he despises. There was nothing he hates more than that utter state of desperation it throws him in… the inability to express it any other way…

It has been said that the opposite of love isn’t hate, it’s indifference. There are those who violently disagree, naively believing that such extremes actually exist in this world. No one understands its truth better than Draco Malfoy and Ginevra Weasley. They both fully comprehend the difference between love and hate lies only in motive behind the word. Simply put, neither could exist without passion – that total, utter loss of control.

And Draco does hate painting, just as he does everything else he is passionate about. Do not doubt for a moment that he does not abuse it just as much as he has and does the rest. In fact, Ginny is sure he derives a great sort of masochistic pleasure from throwing them together like this. His expression somber, he moves to set the paintbrush down resolutely.

His work really is quite impressive and Ginny knows he could have long ago established a successful career in it. He had been well trained in all domains of the arts, history and technique. He loved including aspects of his preferred artists into his pieces and Ginny had become very familiar with the significance of their presence – and the way Draco perversely twisted them for his own, private amusement.

Ginny immediately recognises the Madonna, her red hair fading into the background as though it was part of the sunset rays illuminating the scene. Ginny silently praises Draco’s detailed portrayal of emotion on the woman’s face – her own in a scene that will remain with her for an eternity. Her freckled cheeks bare a half smile, looking down at the body she holds in her arms. It is a gentle exchange… maternal, even.

Draco notes the calm façade of Ginny’s face and smiles silently to himself. Ginny notices it and smirks. He likes to think he can surprise her, that he has depths she cannot reach.

They both know these masks are lies.

Draco continues painting, ignoring her as he dabs his brush once more onto his palette. Ginny kisses him once more behind his right ear, the poor man. His forehead is cold and clammy. His hands, practically shaking. It’s a wonder he can actually paint.

“This is all your fault,” he spits out finally, blinking hard, refusing to give way to tears that have waited years. “I hate you.”

She scowls, and what had a moment before been a gentle caress became a sharp bite to his shoulder. He hissed through his teeth, but did not move an inch.

“Then kill me,” she spat back.

She feels guilty and for this, he is relieved. Mind you, even if she didn’t have that shred of humanity in her, he would never be able to kill her. They understood each other too well.

They were soul mates. Undeniably. Yes, even though it was killing them inside.

Only she could understand, like he did, how it felt to have a loved one kill your lover. And she knew that he understood it. She needs him for this.

Oh, they’d both lost a lover that night but Draco would never seek vengeance against the killer of his. As much as he hates her for it, he also understands how mercifully she went about it. If it had been anyone else, she would have lost it- he knows how Ginny is. But it had been Harry – who she’d loved once as well- as so she’d killed him quickly, even lovingly.

Draco will never forget that scene, and as much he he hates her for it, he understands. If ever he could work up the nerve, he would kill her the same way for doing it to him.

Forcing himself from his thoughts but unable to speak he reaches behind him and strokes her bare thighs. They would not –could not – torture themselves with it anymore.

*****



It came suddenly, that sense of finality- he’d finished. Done. The Madonna figure looks down upon her handsome son who shines with all the greatness of Christ. Christ- with black, dishevelled hair, glasses askew, a lightning bolt scar on his forehead.

Draco only stares- but Ginny knows there is one last thing that needs to be done. She brings her hand to his and guides it, still holding the brush, back to the canvas where he shall to leave his signature in jagged, black, block letters. With a muffled sob she retreats back to their mattress on the floor and his back feels cold without her there.

Judas.