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Dean loved History of Magic.
Not for the Goblin Rebellions.
Not for Binns’ scintillating teaching style.
Dean loved the opportunity History of Magic presented. The chance to pull out the little tin of pencils and charcoals he carried everywhere and a spare piece of parchment, and let Binns’ voice fade to white noise as he sketched.
There were no art classes taught at Hogwarts. He’d always planned, before his Hogwarts letter arrived, to take the subject at his local comprehensive. He’d learn all he could and try his best to land a scholarship so that he could go on to Art College. It wasn’t something that would make him rich, but he knew it’d make him happy. Nothing felt quite as good as when he was creating something from nothing. Not even magic.
Last lesson, he’d filled a foot of parchment with a large drawing of Hermione sucking the end of her quill. Seamus had elbowed him in the ribs halfway through the lesson and asked if he fancied her.
“No,” Dean had said, surprised. “It’s her hair; it’s difficult to capture.”
He’d started to talk about the contrast of light and shadow, the textures…and Seamus’ eyes had glazed over a little.
“You don’t believe me, do you?” he’d asked, wearily.
Seamus grinned wickedly. “Of course I do!” he’d assured him, in a tone that suggested Dean was in for jokes about Miss Granger for at least a month.
This time, he’d chosen a different subject. Or rather, subjects.
Not even faces, today. He was still interested in hair.
Since last time, he’d only had the opportunity to do a couple of quick sketches, but he’d been watching.
For instance, the Ravenclaw Seeker, Cho Chang, and the Patil twins all had glossy, completely straight hair of midnight blue-black that caught the light and reflected it back like a dark mirror. Seamus’ sandy hair, close up, wasn’t sandy at all, but a mix of chocolate and silver strands.
And his own hair was liquorice; brown-black springs that coiled and twisted back on themselves. (“Pubes that lost their way,” Seamus would taunt good-naturedly.)
Today, he was studying the heads bent close together in front of him. Each was a challenge. One had black hair that grew every-which-way; artfully disordered by genetics, not design. It would be tricky to sketch its waves and patterns and yet maintain the natural curve of the skull. The other was gifted with a menace of a colour for working in monochrome; vibrant, heavy locks of auburn that settled into loose curls on his collar.
With the two in the one frame, it would be very difficult. Intensity of shadow was a major problem. There was the temptation to make the dark hair too dark, until it congealed into an indiscernible roundish blob. But then, if the red hair was too light, it would have no definition.
He took a thin light stick of willow charcoal in hand and made the first, tentative outlines.
It helped that they sat close, near enough to whisper into each other’s ears without leaning over. It was much easier to compare the texture, the tint, the volume. Though he was focussing on their hair today, he sketched them with their faces half-turned to each other, since he quickly discerned that that was how they were most often positioned.
That thick ginger lock sat in a permanent crescent shape. Its owner was forever tucking it back, behind his ear, but it would unwind after only a moment and fall forward to tickle his cheek again, just like its twin on the other side.
This clump of ebony hair stood straight up, with an anti-clockwise corkscrew twist. No amount of combing with water or hair tonic could convince it to lie flat. Its possessor was incredibly self-conscious of it, and was occasionally discovered pressing it down firmly with the palm of his hand. He would have a determined expression fixed on his face at these times, as if he hoped by sheer willpower and temporary compression he could master it.
Just at that moment, the dark head bent closer still; lips moving only a tiny distance from the shell of the other’s ear. A deep flush suddenly painted both their faces pink as they laughed at some private joke; blood pooling under the apples of their cheeks. The colour seemed to invigorate the appearance of one, but clashed horribly with the fiery locks of the other.
Something made Dean’s hand with the charcoal hesitate above the parchment.
He looked closer.
He observed the lines of their forms; their posture, the seemingly-unconscious mirroring. The angle of their spines; which told him that although their shoulders were an inch apart, beneath the table, from hip to knee, their legs were in contact. The way they touched; casually, but often.
Suddenly, he felt embarrassed to be watching them, though he couldn’t say for certain why. They were just best mates, right? Just like him and Seamus.
There was a sudden rush for the door when the class ended, as everybody revived and bolted for the Great Hall for lunch. Dean performed a hasty charm on the drawing to Seal the dusty pigment and prevent it from smudging, rolled it neatly, and followed them.
Later that evening, alone in the Dormitory, he took out his half-finished drawing again and tapped it with his wand.
If in class and around others his subjects were making an effort to be careful, the drawing seemed to feel no such need for discretion.
As he watched, the sketch of Harry turned to the sketch of Ron and smiled. It was a slow, gentle smile, knowing and familiar. Ron ducked his head a little, smiling shyly in return, a darkening of pigment on his cheeks betraying a blush. Ron was looking up at Harry through his eyelashes, leaning a little closer, tilting his head just so...
Dean fumbled with his wand and tapped the parchment again, freezing the drawing just before the lips of the two met in a kiss. His heart was racing, his face flushed.
The drawing didn’t mean anything. It wasn’t conclusive that anything was going on between his two friends that went beyond the platonic. But it did imply feeling, sentiment...love of some kind, even if they hadn’t expressed it. Even if they weren’t aware of it yet, themselves.
Dean knew immediately what he had to do. It wasn’t safe to leave lying around. Even only partly completed, the subjects were easily recognisable, and the Animation Charm he’d used was a simple one; basic enough for virtually anyone in the school to master.
He padded into the bathroom, held the drawing over a sink, raised his wand, and hesitated for a long moment. He knew the incantation he had to speak, but his traitorous mouth wouldn’t form the words, and he just stood there, wand outstretched, staring at his creation.
After seconds dragged into minutes, he eventually accepted that he couldn’t bring himself to burn it. Maybe one day, he could finish it. Display it, even. Give it to Ron and Harry as a gift. But today was not that day.
Instead, he buried it deep inside his trunk, right at the bottom, amongst the odd socks, stubs of pencils and the ugly jumpers he never wore. It would be safe there; he was sure of it.
The next History of Magic lesson, Dean kept his head down and studied his own hand. He copied every knuckle, every crease. He even mapped the whorls and loops of his thumbprint; determined to ignore his classmates. He wasn’t ready to sketch any more of their secrets just yet.