Creativity Month: Dean&Fleur, piano

Character Appreciation: friendship

Jewel Challenge, ruby necklace: Write about a Gryffindor

Caffeine Awareness, cappuccino: Write a story using only two characters

Word Count: 545


Dean sits on the piano bench, resting his sketchbook unsteadily on his lap. It isn't perfect, and he can already tell his lines are going to be shaky. He doesn't care. If he sketches, it means his hands and mind are engaged; it means he can think of something other than the war and everything he has lost.

The piano keys he renders in charcoal don't look quite right. The proportions are off, and the lines are a little too crooked. It doesn't matter. He's drawing, and that means he's still alive.

"Do you play?"

Dean startles at the sound of the soft, curious voice behind him. He turns to see Fleur approaching him, her blue eyes narrowed slightly.

He mutters a quick apology. This is hers and Bill's home after all. He is just a guest, and maybe he should have asked if it was okay to be in here first.

Fleur doesn't seem to hear his apology. If she does, she doesn't acknowledge it all. "Do you play?" she asks again.

Dean shakes his head, lifting his sketchbook. "Just drawing," he explains.

She nods and sits beside him on the bench. Her posture is rigid, and her gaze is fixed upon the keys. Slowly, she lifts her hands before pressing her slender fingers to the keys.

He's never really paid much attention to music. For the most part, it's just background noise to help him focus on whatever task is at hand. But there's something about the way Fleur plays. It's an unfamiliar melody, and maybe it's something she's made up on the spot, but it's the most beautiful thing he's ever heard.

"I didn't know you played," he says, staring at her in amazement as her fingers slow before coming to a stop.

Fleur flashes him a bright smile. "Did you zink you were ze only artist 'ere?" she asks with a soft chuckle. "My uncle was a pianist. 'E taught me when I was younger. It 'elps to keep ze mind of zings."

He nods. It's exactly why he draws. It doesn't matter if the world is on fire; as long as he can hold a pencil, he knows everything will be okay.

"May I see?" she asks, nodding towards his sketchbook.

Dean hesitates. He doesn't like showing his sketches. Even if he shows off some of them, letting someone see each and every drawing he's done feels like baring his soul. Only Seamus has ever been allowed.

But Fleur is an artist too. They may have different ways of expressing themselves, but she still understands the emotion that goes into each and every line.

He hands her the book, watching as she flips through the pages. "Zese are very good," she tells him, pausing and smiling at a rough sketch he had done of her and Bill together. "I 'ave always wanted to learn 'ow to draw."

"I could teach you," he offers.

"I would like that." And with that, she resumes playing again.

Dean can't help but to smile. The world is going to hell, and nothing is promised. But he can still pretend that everything is going to be okay. He has friends by his side and hope in his heart, and that's enough to keep him going.