Everything was perfect inside the white box. The pristine white walls, the spotless dazzling white floor and the sparkling white ceiling. Sanitized perfection, clinical, sterilized; untouched and untainted by even the tiniest hint of imperfection and the horror of the ordinary.

Life was perfect inside the white box, lonely but perfect. There was everything anyone could ever need inside this magical, wonderful white box. She did not want for anything inside the searingly bright brilliance of the white box. Hidden inside the impossible perfection of the white walls there was a vast number of invisible cupboards and drawers containing everything and anything that the heart could desire.

Her life was perfect inside the white box, blindingly perfect. Her porcelain skin that grew increasingly paler captured the subtle glow of her youth, her red hair that seemed to grow darker against her pale skin hung in effortless curls down her back with never a hair out of place, her rich brown eyes sparkled with the reflected brilliance of the snowy white walls. She was perfect, her perfection forever immortalised inside the white box.

The perfect white box, her perfect little prison, kept her hidden from the outside world. Hidden from the world and it's unimaginable imperfections that threatened to taint and corrupt the perfection of her innocence; hidden from the imperfections that were scars on the surface of a once perfect earth. Her prison kept her safe from the dangers of the outside, dangers of the unknown. Safe from the evil that lurked in the shadows – shadows that were not visible in her well light perfect little white prison cell. Safe from the corrupting influences of the masses, the taint of pollution and the suffering and pains of loss. Inside this white box there was nothing to hurt her, nothing to spoil her innocence. Nothing to ruin the perfection she had fought for.

Ginevra, the perfect porcelain doll in her perfect little doll's house. Locked up, kept away from the world. Her life was far from perfect in her seemingly perfect world. Her eyes did not hold the spark or fire of her spirit, but glittered eerily from the reflected light that was also trapped inside her prison. Her hair as fiery red as it was lacked the bounce and wildness of her personality. Her skin was no longer covered in the freckles that identified her as a Weasley, they were imperfections that she had fought long and hard to be rid of.

The relentless search for perfection pushed Ginevra closer and closer to the edge of sanity, until she fell into the inky black abyss of insanity that contrasted with the pearly white walls of her home. She lost her identity, her personality, her spirit was crushed under the weight of her quest – her quest that was never really hers alone – as she struggled to search for a perfection that would match his. She was never good enough for him and he never let her forget it. He put her in here. He constructed her white prison cell to help her achieve the perfection she wanted – no, needed to be his equal. He may not have deliberately pushed her to strive for perfection, but through his arrogance that was exactly what happened.

Draco Malfoy looked through the one-way mirror of Ginny's cell and walked briskly away, turning his back on the perfect white box that housed a once perfect young woman and now contained an empty shell.

With a sigh full of regret he shook his head. He should have known that it was because of her imperfections that she had been perfect from the start.