This piece, I feel, describes my creative process. I was in such a writing mood, that when I slipped into Dean's mind, the way forward was clear. And this erupted in my notebook, which I carry wherever I go. I hope that people can understand Dean a little better, and understand how he manages to hold on while death is everywhere.
...
(sketchbook)
Dean Thomas carries a sketchbook wherever he goes. Creativity and inspiration lurks behind ever corner for him. The shadow a leaf casts on the firm, cold stone ground sets him digging for the pencil and sketchbook. The drop of a feather holds heaven and earth for him. Every fold of fabric makes a study of light and shadow.
He draws faces in the shadow, evil faces that jump from the front page of the paper to his brain, where they all join hands and jump into the creamy white and lead grey world of his sketchbook. In the light, as faintly as he can, he draws faces. McGonagall is there, in the middle of a transformation, ears growing, face shrinking, and stripes forming. Dumbledores eyes twinkle even from the paper.
Harry's scar prompts sketches. The fall of Ginny's hair makes the pages of the sketchbook. Seamus's easy grin beams up at him. Hermione's shy smile dances around Ron's face as he pictures their children (everyone knows it will happen but them).
At the end of his sixth year, he sees the body. The body has fallen from his imagination, and has broken on the ground, like a beautiful sculpture. The body becomes a leaf in the sketchbook, tearstained, but still a leaf. Lying on the ground, clinging to the glory of colour as it dries, before crunching under a hard boot.
And a damned ugly boot it is too. The green, twisting, hideous snake and skull oozes its way into his pencil marks too. Dean is so fascinated, and so revolted by the omen of death. He can't help it.
Waiting through the summer to find out whether people want him dead or not, Dean Thomas draws.
Creativity comes in every fold of fabric, and the muses sing so sweetly to him as he draws.