A Different Kind of Art
"You really want to know about my relationships?" Dean asks, glancing shyly at Luna in the pale half-light that the pit provides. In the corner, Ollivander slumbers away, snores wracking his lithe frame, and they puncture the air as Luna nods slowly.
"Only if you want to tell me, of course." She's an inquisitive person, but Dean thinks she'd make a great politician as a Muggle – if not the most likely to achieve, she'd certainly be popular - because she finds her facts without intruding beyond barriers she should not cross.
"Okay."
With that, Luna falls into a contented silence, and Dean begins his story.
--
i. Ginny
She's wonderful – great for a laugh or a snog and she even puts up with his incessant rambling about West Ham (no matter how many times she rolls her eyes at the idea of red cards and handballs) – but Dean never gets the 'happily ever after' vibe at all.
He shrugs it off, because at sixteen, he has his whole life ahead of him and she's just another girl in a world as fragile as paper that could fall apart under their feet at any minute. This is not football, there are no rules, and maybe there doesn't need to be just one winner. She's destined for Harry, and he's destined for someone, and that makes him laugh, because he's Dean Thomas, and he most certainly does not believe in Divination or Astrology.
"Have you… have you ever wondered about what it would be like to love someone so completely that you'd do anything for them?" They're enclosed in the Three Broomsticks; having exhausted every possible topic, they've run out of words that mirror the every day reality of conversation. Dean almost wishes he'd taken Ginny to Madam Puddifoot's, so that at least their mouths would have an occupation other than talking, but he knows how much she hates pink (and not just because it clashes with her hair).
"I guess so," he says slowly. "It depends on what you mean by 'anything'."
He knows he wouldn't do anything for Ginny; he'd make a lot of choices to keep her friendship, that blossoming smile and irreplaceable wit, but there are some things he just wouldn't do. Dean wonders if that's why he knows he doesn't love her.
"I don't mean like that." She blushes, her deep brown eyes wide with mirth as she chuckles at the awkwardness of the whole situation. "I meant… would you give up everything for a chance at love?"
"If I met the right person," Dean says finally. Ginny is still blushing, and he lets out a laugh of his own. So many people try to label her, she's a slut, a whore, a skank, and he wonders what they'd say if he told them: Ginny Weasley doesn't even like talking about sex.
She's never made a move on him, and frankly, he quite likes it that way. They're both happy knowing that this is not a romance about marriage and love and happily ever after. She does not wear glass slippers, sleep constantly or live with dwarfs; she is not the princess of the fairytales of his childhood, nor is he the prince.
All expectations have been erased, pounded into fine dust like a broken heart, and –
- and he likes all of this.
"Why are you laughing?"
"Don't you know what people think of you?"
"That I'm a poor red-headed skank whose family multiplies like rabbits?"
"Yeah, that."
Everyone has an opinion on her. She doesn't even have one on herself.
"You know," he adds, gesturing towards the doorway as he drains the last of his Butterbeer. "I never thought that about you, not at all."
They both ignore the obvious subtext; but I never loved you, either. They already know it.
--
"You know," Luna says thoughtfully as they sit in the squalor, condemned to talking about past crushes as a way of removing their minds from the tragedy of this war that they cannot even be a part of, "you really did mean something to her."
"I know."
"She says you're the first person that ever understood her."
Dean thinks that's always been his life; understanding what others don't seem in themselves. It's why he's an artist, because drawing is just his opinions of others on paper, in something more tangible than a thought.
"She's very complex, like a lot of things, I suppose," Luna continues, one hand on the nape of her neck as she stares him down with silvery-grey eyes. "I feel sorry for her, all that horrible stuff that people say."
Their voices fill the air, and Dean wonders if Luna's got one thing right: his love life (or lack their of) is complex.
--
ii. Cho
At first Dean wonders if he should be ashamed of himself for taking Harry's seconds – they're already naught but shadows behind The Boy Who Lived – but then he remembers: Ginny was his first, before she was Harry's, so if anything, Harry's taking his leftovers.
He hides his relationship with Cho from Harry, anyway. There's Quidditch and Katie and whatever Harry's obsession – for that's exactly what it is, even if he thinks no one notices – with Draco Malfoy is to worry about. He flies like everything is normal, ignoring the looks that Ginny gives him, and secretly wondering if she knows that he asked Cho out so soon.
She's a bit of sop, really, but Dean really enjoys talking to her. It's all Quidditch and memories of the DA and art. They sit in the half-light at dusk, sketching each other with furious fingers that produce artwork incapable of expressing their true emotions. His drawing makes the soft curves of her face too jagged, the outlines of her eyes too wide, it doesn't capture that tortured artist trapped inside her that Dean thinks only he can see.
Their whole relationship, for the two months it lasts, is set in stone by a metamorphosis; they're both moving forward from past relationships to find their new selves. Neither of them misses their respective ex-partners at first, they just miss the presence of someone, the feel of damp, plump lips against their own and a heartbeat thudding along slowly beside theirs.
Dean's life becomes a whirlwind of Quidditch and homework and trying to understand his feelings for Cho. He doesn't love her; it's not that spellbinding (all puns aside) feeling that you'd do anything for them. These feelings bear a tag labeled 'lust' and a 'no more loneliness' and he wonders when he started to give in.
Five years ago, he was a West Ham freak from a London primary school where girls had 'cooties' and everyone knew they weren't to be trusted. Now Dean's not sure to think at all.
He falls back into Cho's arms, and sets to sketching the corners of her eyes instead.
--
Luna sits up, arching her back as she leans forward from the wall, and stares intently at Dean.
"If you didn't love her, why did you stay with her?" Dean adores her all-questioning nature, the way that she can shed light on even the dullest of circumstances, that she has the ability to believe so freely, but this question irks him. He's not entirely sure of the answer, in fact, he doesn't think he ever was. He wants to make a remark like Luna, to comment on the complexities of the human heart and how they could possibly be affected by Nargles without missing a beat, but instead, he just mutters, "I don't know."
He waits for her remark – being a Ravenclaw, pride in knowledge is needed to survive, and Luna Lovegood is possibly the epitome of a Ravenclaw, with her eccentric ways and omniscient way of pointing out the truth with words alone. She doesn't make one.
Instead, Dean watches in disbelief as she wiggles towards him, the seat of her pants, matted and soiled, scraping against the dirt. She throws her arm over his shoulder, and for a moment, he catches a whiff of her smell. Luna smells of a pretty fragrance; she's the rose among the stench of the thorns, to use an old cliché.
They sit in comfortable silence, and Dean realises that, with Luna, it's not always complicated. Sometimes, it just is.
--
iii. Seamus
This relationship, it's all a hoax.
It all starts with Terry Boot's comment one night after a DA meeting. "Seamus, why've you never got a girl? You gay or something?" They all giggle and laugh and Seamus blushes, and then he grabs Dean's shoulders and says, "Of course. Why did you think Dean was my best friend?"
They hold arms in the corridors and blow kisses to each other when they leave for class, and then they hole themselves up in the dormitory at night and laugh at how gullible their friends are. Dean's talents have always headed more towards the visual arts field, but he's starting to realise he likes acting, the thrill of the pantomime; he puts on a mask, and suddenly he has no history, he can reinvent himself time and time and time again.
It becomes tedious, of course. There's only so many times you can assume a blank face when you're giggling with Seamus about the latest escapade – he has a cold sore apparently, so kissing is definitely not an option – but you're starting to think that he's rather cute. It's nothing emotional, but there's that dimple and that smile and that accent.
In Dean's mind, there's a Hermione-like voice, telling him that being confused about your sexuality is normal and that studies show a percentage of teenagers are homosexual for a while, and that turns him off Seamus more than the fact that he's a guy ever did.
He becomes the man of many faces, sliding on his "I love Seamus" mask in company and then taking it off when it's just the two of them, during the time when he feels he should be wearing it most. The deception continues for months, and then it becomes unraveled one morning in early March when they've run out of excuses not to snog.
"It's been ages, you guys! I bet you aren't even gay together!" All their friends chime in with various comments, some more likely to believe the masquerade than others in a last ditch effort to look like supportive friends.
Dean and Seamus sneak hurried glances that could be passed off as shyness, and that's what seals the deal. Seamus may not have had much success with girls, and Dean may not be the loudest, proudest Gryffindor, but neither of them has it in them for embarrassment.
"Alright," he says. "No, we're not gay."
"I bloody well thought so!" Anthony bursts out, although the rise of his brow proves that he believed anything but. "You're not flamin' poofters after all."
"You never know," Seamus replies. "We did a pretty good job of pretending… better than most people ever could."
But was it really pretending?
Within two weeks, Seamus has a girlfriend – Susan Bones, his first, because Lavender was a just a dance partner – and Dean still wears the mask. He doesn't love Seamus, not at all, but they've spent the past three months pretending to have something, and now they have nothing.
He's starting to wonder what could have been had he ever stopped pretending.
--
Luna is too polite to snort "I don't get it," but Dean can read the question in her face.
"You're going to ask why I didn't admit to it, aren't you? Honestly, I don't know."
He seems to say that a lot.
"It's easy for you," Dean continues. "You're Luna. Everyone expects you to be insane and not relate to us, and they don't even notice when you do. I saw the way you looked at Neville."
"I didn't love Neville. I just wanted him to stand up for himself, you know; I just wanted him to see what he could be."
"You didn't? But… you were always watching him? You acted as if you loved him..." Their words are torn apart in storms of confusion, as they struggle with their perceptions of the other.
Everything is changing completely here, in this dirty hovel tainted with the scum of a thousand generations, and Dean wonders if anything will ever be the same.
Luna shifts her position, wrapping another spindly arm around his shoulders, mumbling, "acting is a silly pastime. The world would be a better place if we could just behave as though we're not ashamed. I know people laugh at me Dean, I'm not a Ravenclaw for nothing, and yet… I'm happy with who I am."
Dean knows he isn't happy with himself, but right now he's happy with Luna, and that's enough.
--
iv. Tonks
Dean knows from the minute he sees her that this one isn't love. Tonks blinds him with her colour – bubblegum pink hair and a bright purple T-shirt with more holes than stitches – and in the hazy wake her presence leaves he fails to realise that there's something important going on. She struts in with Professor Lupin at her side, all big breasts and flowery language – how the hell does she make stupid words like "wotcher" sound so attractive?
Dean falls for her attitude, sinking into daydreams where they ride motorbikes and frequent rock concerts and soon he feels like he's falling for the thrill of the adventure rather than the person. He giggles – yes, giggles – as Seamus elbows him, interrupting his reveries with lurid theories about whether or not Tonks and their ex-professor are getting it on. For a boy who six weeks ago had never had a girlfriend, he's certainly making up for lost time by meddling in the affairs of others.
Tonks disappears up a staircase, and then there's a stunned silence as Dean makes every attempt to reassert himself at the world: "I was not looking at her like that, guys."
He was, of course, but they don't need to know that. Dean Thomas plays the part of the masquerader too well.
--
She watches as he searches for the stick, sketching the outline of a face in the dirt. Dean's attention to detail is astounding; even in this murky light his fingers work their way carefully around the edge of an eye, the jut of the chin, the smooth curve of the lips, coloured chocolate brown as a substitute for pink.
"You've always been an artist," she says. "I remember those banners you made for Harry – some of them even complimented my hat. This is no different."
"It's not?"
Luna takes a deep breath, her still abnormally wide eyes glowing in the darkness like Muggle UFOs. Her inability to blink still scares Dean, who is petrified to wake up to bright orbs that glow like the moon.
"You were creating the person you wanted all those girls to believe you were." For a second, Dean wonders how she can have all the answers, but then he hunches back over, immersing himself in his drawing. "You created this image of somebody else, and he was nothing like you."
"Luna," Dean whispers, his breath escaping in tiny bursts of misty wind, "has anyone ever told you that you're awesome?"
"No, they just call me insane."
With that, they both let out a chuckle, deliberately stifled to avoid attracting attention – Luna stills wears the thin, tendril like scars wrapped around her wrists like bracelets to remind her of that – and fall about on the floor, with no acting needed to portray their feelings.
--
v. Lavender
Sometimes, Dean's not even sure he can call this a relationship. They start owling each other sometime over the holidays, each as desperate for intimacy and news as each other. Their letters start off formal – 'how are your holidays?', have you heard from Seamus?' 'what about Parvati?' – and then they fall into more relaxed conversation, and soon Dean finds himself hanging off Lavender's every written word.
Dear Dean, she writes one day,
Remember how Professor Trelawney predicted all those wars? I hate the fact that she's right. I hate the fact that I loved Divination, and all it's done is predict evil. I hate that I might now see you and Hermione and even Colin, no matter how annoying he is, this year. I hate it all.
Love Lavender,
xoxo
PS. Parvati says hi, and asks how West Ham's going. I hope she's being sarcastic, honestly.
Dean lets out a chuckle at the thought of Lavender ever hating Divination; he remembers Moody's ability to spot her astrology magazines from under the desk as well as anyone. Gently, he traces the words with a finger, transporting himself back to Hogwarts and one of those days under the trees near the lake.
He writes back, formulating every sentence in his mind before copying it down in scribbly loops, the perfect letter that Lavender could never fault.
Dear Lavender,
West Ham's fine – there's not really much of a season because it's summer though. Tell Parvati thanks for her concern, I guess.
So what's been happening in your life? I feel guilty talking constantly about me, and whether or not I'll make it back to Hogwarts, when your life must be much more exciting.
Please write back soon,
Love Dean. xx
He scratches the end of his chin with his quill, the feathers tickle his nose, and he quickly adds a sketch of the Ministry being swooped by World War II fighter planes. Even if she doesn't get the symbolism – he was always the history fanatic in primary school – Dean hopes Lavender will get a laugh.
He's not sure how to impress her, because apart from Won-Won, she's never had a boyfriend. The thing with Seamus was a just a fling, he remembers consoling his mate as their two day relationship fell to pieces because of some petty teenage thing that nobody even remembers now. She's always been a bit clingy, Dean remembers, grasping any chance at company with both hands in an attempt to stay afloat in the Hogwarts social scene.
These letter, they're revealing a different side to her, one that he really likes. Dean waits for days – no, weeks – for her to write back, and she never does. The war has taken it's toll on any relationship they may have ever had, and Dean finds himself cursing his inability to speak sooner yet again.
In the end, he falls out of this weird feeling, which isn't quite love but isn't really anything else, with her, and into a strange sort of longing for her words, for any news of the world to which he really belongs.
Even though he isn't always sure he belongs there.
--
Luna glances curiously at him for a minute, and then he realises that this is what she's been trying to teach him: he needs to stop acting on anything other than instinct, as anyone other than himself, and he needs to learn to take action.
Dean cups Luna's face in his hands, and as their lips meet, he grins.
With Luna, he doesn't have to worry, he can just be. That's what tells him he loves her. Being with her is a different kind of art entirely, one that doesn't rely on the images of others at all.
This has been a long time in the making. It just wouldn't come to me at all until a few days ago, and then it just worked. It was actually written for a few different things: my Five Things Challenge, in which I claimed Five People Dean Thomas Never Fell in Love With, and for a stack of Reviews Lounge fanon facts that I had to contradict, including:13. Seamus Finnegan is a "ladies man", 14. Lavender Brown being a bit, er, promiscuous. . . instead of just girly and clingy, 71. Ginny is promiscuous/ enjoys sleeping around, etc., 93. Lavender Brown is pretty/attractive/errr . . . well-developed, and 119. Luna/Neville.
I hope you enjoyed it, and I'd love to hear anything you have to say.
Cuba...x