Dean Thomas
"Winter is an etching,
spring a watercolor,
summer an oil painting,
and autumn mosaic of them all."
Stanley Horowitz
Ocean
By:
LittleMissWesley (Wevi)
Drawing is like breathing for Dean. He can't live without it. It's like laughter for Seamus, or flying for Harry, or cooking for his Mum, or ballet for his 15-year old sister Laura.
He hasn't been able to draw for the longest time. Being on the run wasn't exactly a holiday, although sometimes he would fish old Muggle newspapers out of bins and sketch things. Anything, really. Trees, birds, sky. He did one of the goblins, Griphook and Gornuk, a couple of days before they all were caught, but he didn't give it to them or anything. He's never known any goblins, being Muggleborn and all.
The drawing of Ted Tonks he did give to the man, who thanked Dean warmly and stowed it in his trouser pocket.
Now Dean sort of wishes he had kept it, so he would have been able to give it to his wife or something. Though he doubts it would make her feel any better. Her husband's dead, how could anything make her feel better?
Dean sighs heavily. He feels guilty because of Teds death. Ted had a wife, a pregnant daughter, a son-in-law (Deans old Defense professor), a family.
Well, you've got a family, too, Dean tells himself. He has his Mum, his Stepdad, his three little sisters: Laura, Elizabeth and Wendy. He prays every single night that they're still alive. He can't take any more deaths.
He's at Shell Cottage now and has been there about a week. He likes it, although it is crowded and confining. But it is beautiful, especially for an artist like Dean.
Right now he is sitting on the edge of the rocky cliff overlooking the ocean, drawing. When he offhandedly mentioned he liked art, Fleur rummaged around a bit and found him an old, but complete, art set, with paper, watercolors and oil paints. Dean loves it, but he wishes she and Bill weren't so kind and generous. He hasn't got any way to return the favor really.
But he can draw, so he is doing the ocean next to their house for them. Four times, one for every season. He's finished spring already, watercolor on thick paper. It was the easiest, for he only had to draw what he sees. Winter is much harder, but he can sort of imagine what it's like. His Gran lived near the beach, before she went to a nursing home.
He draws the waves tall and gray and foamy,crashing down onto the shore. There is a storm raging and a bolt of lightning flashes across his background. Dean tries to shadow the sky so it's precisely the right shade, but his hand hurts from gripping the pencil.
He sets his pad down and stretches his aching fingers. His toes are also cold from sitting still so long.
Then Luna joins him. Dean has gotten used to her presence by now. Shes seems to have a knack for leaving him alone when he wants to be left alone and approaching him when he would like company.
"Can I see?"she asks, pointing to his partially finished sketch.
"Sure" says Dean and hands it to her. For a split second, their fingers touch and a little shiver runs up his arm.
Luna studies the drawing closely, her long blonde hair falling over her face. Dean would love to draw her, but he's too shy. They've only kissed twice and held hands once, when they were walking on the beach and Luna was looking for shells and sea lavender.
Luna hands him his pad back. "How do you do it?" she says, almost wistfully. Dean doesn't know what she has to be wistful about. She's perfect.
"Do what?"
"Draw the seasons like that. It isn't even winter." Luna widens her big blue eyes earnestly.
Dean thinks. He isn't very good at explaining things. He is a person of the visual. But then he remembers something, a quote he read in his little sisters Elizabeths art book.
"It's like this" he says, turning to face her. " Winter is an etching, spring a watercolor, summer an oil painting and autumn a mosaic of them all." He hesitates, wondering if Luna gets it.
He needn't have worried. Luna understands. Of course she does.
well i hope you liked it :)
wevi (littlemisswesley)
