Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing/s, Character/s: Dean Thomas/Luna Lovegood
Word Count: 1159
Summary: Dean and Luna bond over art during their stay at Shell Cottage.
Comments: SPOILERS FOR HARRY POTTER AND THE DEATHLY HALLOWS. Probably. Erm. Also, this is the first thing I've written in a Very Long Time, so it might be crap. I was just so excited to actually finish writing something I had to post it!
He's been at Shell Cottage for two days when he realises he needs to get outside, away from the stifling air of this cottage, crowded with people he barely knows. He's grateful for Bill and Fleur Weasley's generosity, of course, but he's always been the sort to need his own space, and the crisp air outside is calling to him. He slips out quietly, unnoticed, and sets off along the cliff edge, taking deep breaths and trying to clear his head of all thoughts of running and fear, of the Malfoys' cellar and the sound of Hermione Granger's screams.
He's still a few metres away from her when he notices her, sitting with her back propped against a rock and her knees up to her chest. She hasn't noticed him, though, and he begins to turn away, not wanting to disturb her peace when he knows how badly he sought his own.
“You don't have to go,” she says suddenly, making him jump, and he turns again to see her gazing intently at him. She's got a soft, vague smile on her face, and her slightly protuberant eyes are hiding shadows behind them; he's not really comfortable around Luna Lovegood, not entirely sure he wants to stay. The sun is setting, though, and her long blonde hair flares bright orangeredpink as the light catches it. He's struck with a sudden urge to draw her, beautiful there, silhouetted against the cliff edge in the setting sun, and says so.
Her smile changes. It doesn't get bigger, but the blurry edges of it sharpen into a delighted expression. She gestures for him to sit down, patting the ground next to her with a pale hand, slender and graceful like the rest of her, and he obediently joins her, his own lithe frame folding as he crosses his legs. He offers her an uncertain smile as he pulls a small sketchpad from his pocket and she beams more brightly, her face creasing into a shape it doesn't look like it's used to. He looks at her more closely, and it properly occurs to him for the first time in the two days he's been living with her that while he was only there for an hour at most, Luna was in that cellar for weeks, maybe months. Her skin, naturally pale, is now almost translucent from the lack of sunlight, stretched over hollow cheeks and sharp angles of bones showing through; she's not merely slender, she's barely there. Though she's smiling eagerly at him, the shadows in her grey eyes are hiding something sinister. He has to lower his eyes for a second; it hurts to look at her for too long.
“I can draw too,” she tells him, her voice still dreamy, perhaps a little bit wistful. “I like drawing.” Her feet are bare, he notices, her pale toes curling in the grass. Her toenails are painted – those on her left foot in dark blue with tiny silver stars and those on her right foot in pale blue with equally tiny golden suns. It's intricately detailed work for a canvas as small as her dainty toenails are, and he's impressed. He tells her so and she looks pleased.
“Incendio,” he murmurs, setting fire to the end of a stick of wood he's picked up off the ground. He lets it burn for a minute or so as Luna's fingers trace patterns in the smoke that's coming from it, and then blows it out, letting it cool for a second before pressing his improvised charcoal to paper and beginning to draw. Luna seems to have become completely unaware of his presence as she gazes out across the sea; she's standing now, her fingers still outlining invisible patterns on the evening air as she hums quietly and sways to her own music. He doesn't mind her apparent disinterest in him, though; it leaves him free to concentrate on etching out the waves of her dirty blonde hair as it cascades down her back, on perfecting the soft angle of her jaw and the line of her nose. He pays particular attention to her feet, toes buried in the grass that brushes against her ankles, and the trailing hem of her robes. He's concentrating on the pattern of the fabric and the texture of the grass, so it's a minute before he realises that Luna's looking over his shoulder at the image he's drawn.
“Ooh, it's lovely, you can draw very well. She's beautiful,” Luna coos, her breath hot against his ear. “Who is she?”
He frowns at her, thinking she's laughing at him, mocking his drawing, but her eyes are wide and innocent, gazing curiously at him, and he realises she's perfectly serious. He clears his throat, a little uncomfortably, and scratches at the back of his neck.
“It's you,” he tells her. “It – that's what you look like. You're beautiful.”
Luna blinks slowly, gazing intently at the picture with those disconcerting eyes of hers, and Dean feels exposed and awkward. After a few long, long minutes she drags her gaze away from the image and back up to Dean's face. Her expression is still inquisitive, but he thinks some of the shadows that were lingering behind her eyes have vanished.
“I don't think anybody else sees me like that,” she says, and Dean feels heat rising in his cheeks.
“But that's how you are,” he asserts, a slight catch to his voice as Luna leans closer to him. Her breath is brushing against his ear again and he shivers at the heat in it.
“Thank you,” she whispers, leaning closer still and pressing her lips to his cheek in a gentle kiss. Her hair is trailing over her shoulder and she smells of smoke and grass with an inexplicable hint of lemonade, and he can't help himself as he turns his head to meet her lips with his own. She tastes of lemonade, too, he thinks fuzzily to himself as they kiss, one hand on her thin waist to steady her. It's a sweet kiss, soft and slow and it's over before he realises. She's looking at him again with her wide eyes glinting silver now, in the moonlight. There's something indecipherable about her expression as she smiles and traces the edges of his lips with her fingertip.
“That was nice,” she says, matter-of-fact as always. “I think I like kissing you, Dean Thomas.” And then she's standing up again and walking away from him, back along the cliff edge towards the cottage, leaving behind a lingering scent of lemonade. Dean stares at the picture he's drawn of her, taking in all the details of her that he wasn't even aware that he'd noticed. After a few minutes he smiles to himself, following Luna back to the cottage and wondering, idly, whether anything will come of telling Luna he wants to draw her again tomorrow night.