shut down to a whisper
.
.
.
Astoria's got hazelnut eyes and high cheekbones, and Dean's got charcoal-stained artist's hands, so of course he ends up painting her. And of course they fall in love. That's just the way it is, right?
.
The painting is watercolor, blurry and wet, Astoria's eyes shining like brown stars amongst a sky of pale, pale peach. It looks like she is crying, sort of, or maybe the paint is just runny.
She traces her fingers along the line of her jaw. "It's beautiful," she whispers. Dean is still getting used to the fact that she is even quieter than he is. He's become sort of a hermit since the war, spending too much time drawing and too little time socializing, except with Seamus and Lavender, obviously, and sometimes Neviile, Luna or Parvati. But Astoria is much worse, if you want to look at it that way, her voice barely more than a whisper and her blonde hair hiding her face like a curtain, or maybe a shield. It's wonder he ever got her to agree to sit for the painting in the first place. The only person Dean has seen her speak more than five words to is her sister, Daphne, who is friendlier and more outspoken, but still has the same sad, sad eyes. Oh, and Dean. Astoria talks to Dean. Not much, but that's okay.
As her way of saying thank-you (Dean's not quite sure what for, she's not the one who got to paint one of the most beautiful girls in London), she takes him out for ice cream, but she forgets her money, so Dean pays, one walnut for him and one strawberry-lemon for her. She blushes when she thanks him (for the third time), the pale pink flooding her cheeks, and Dean would like to paint her again, or maybe kiss her, but does neither, just licks the melting ice cream off his fingers.
The summer sun is hot, hot against the back of his neck, yet Astoria's dress is long and heavy and black, with an old-fashioned lace collar and ruffled sleeves. "Aren't you warm, dressed like that?," he asks. She just shaked her head no and smiles the tiniest of smiles.
Afterwards, he walks her home, all the way through Muggle London. Her apartment is very small and very dark and she wilts a little when she opens the door. "Can I have your Floo adress?," Dean says, fiddling with a stray thread on his t-shirt. Astoria looks at the dirty floor. "I haven't got a fireplace."
"Oh," says Dean. "Well I'll just owl you, okay, or maybe just come 'round sometime." He grins slightly and makes to leave, but she grabs his hand and gives it a quick squeeze, her pale skin in contrast to his dark. "Bye," she utters, and closes the door, and Dean is left to shake his head and apparate home.
.
A day or two later, he visits her at her job, at Madame Malkin's. He supposes she's already seen him work, sort of, now it's his turn.
The shop is crowded and Madame Malkin is irritable. She directs him to one of the back rooms, telling him not to distract Astoria, that she's got work to do, and really, why do young men always have to come bursting in, trying to seduce her seamstresses?
Dean leaves her there, grumbling, and meanders through the dusty corridors, eventually finding a partially open door marked Astoria, which he pushes open. The room is not very big, but Astoria has opened the one window and there are vases of flowers on every surface not covered in fabric and other sewing equipment. She is sitting in the middle of it all, using an ancient-looking sewing machine which seems to be held together by only magic and Spellotape. She jumps slightly when she sees Dean, making one of the stitches go wonky. "Look at that," she admonishes quietly. "What are you doing here?"
"Sorry, " says Dean, embarrassed. "I just wanted to see you." He puts his hands in his jeans pockets and watches her undo the stitches, tongue poking out between her lips. "Can't you just do that with magic?," he wonders aloud, genuinely curious.
Astoria shakes her head, making her pale hair ripple like a pool of water. Dean can imagine running his hands through it lazily. He bets it's soft. "Not if you want it done right," she says with suprising fierceness.
She has to finish her day's work before she can leave, so Dean stays and looks on, after he's made sure she doesn't feel uncomfortable. It's not that boring, actually it's comfortingly peaceful, watching Astoria embroider and sew little rosettes and buttons onto the expensive-looking robes. She's very good at what she does, as far as he can tell, but somehow he doubts she makes very much money. She doesn't strike him as the kind of girl who would choose to live in a cramped, fireplace-less flat.
They walk home together again, not speaking much. Dean supposes it should be awkward, yet it isn't, not really. It's comfortable. He frets a bit about if it would be okay to take her hand, but finally he just does, very shyly, and is awarded with one of Astoria's rare smiles. And when they've climbed the creaky stairs and she's produced her key and opened the door, he leans in and kisses her.
And that's the beginning.
.
Thankfully the summer has barely started and there are a million things for them to do together. They go to the beach, Astoria squealing when the cold waves hit her, Dean drawing her jumping around in her old-fashioned bathing suit. They attend Daphne's stiff, formal wedding with Blaise where everyone, especially the bride, looks miserable, and Astoria cries silently all the way home. They take walks and hold hands and kiss in the summer rain and eat lots and lots of ice cream, for the summer is unusually hot this year. Dean's friends seem to like Astoria well enough, though Seamus proclaims her "way too shy", but, then again, Seamus is married to Lavender, who giggles and complains and chatters and yells pretty much non-stop, so that's okay. Yes, Dean knows he and Astoria don't talk very much, but that's not a problem, right?
Alas, June melts into July melts into August and eventually even September, far too quickly. The leaves turn golden and orange, Astoria is busy sewing robes for the Hogwarts' students, and Dean is asked to illustrate yet another edition of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. The colder is gets, the less they see of each other. And when they do, it's always so...strange. The easiness they had those hot summer months, it's gone now, in autumn. Dean finds himself longing to move, to stretch his legs and shift his bones. There's something wrong. He's not quite sure what.
But as he's sitting on his couch with Astoria, the first night of the first day of October, drinking warm pumpkin juice, it finally hits him.
It's too quiet.
.
song credits go to a fine frenzy. a review would be lovely, especially if you favorited.