Author's Note: If you don't like slash, skip this fic. I don't own Seamus, Dean or Hogwarts and anyone who thinks that I do is obviously misinformed.

Charcoal Sketches

"Seamus, come on!" Dean pulled his friend into the deserted dormitory.

"But I've got to do my homework!" Seamus protested.

Dean laughed. "When has that ever matter to you?"

"Since Flitwick nearly failed me on the spot last week when I blew up Lavender's homework." Seamus answered promptly. "Seriously, Dean, if I don't turn in my essay tomorrow, he'll give me detention for the rest of the year! I know he's threatened before, but I think this time he means it."

"You can copy mine later. Just come on!" Dean tugged the shorter boy to the window and shoved him into a conveniently placed chair framed by the light of dusk seeping through the window.

Seamus stood up, pretending to consider. "That wouldn't be very moral, would it?"

Dean pushed him back into the chair. "So what? You can copy my morals too," he said distractedly.

Seamus giggled. "That didn't make much sense, did it?"

Dean didn't answer, completely focused on rearranging Seamus' body so that it caught all the right sunbeams and shadows. When he'd found a state of perfection, he stepped away, whipped out his sketchpad and the set of charcoals Seamus had given him for Christmas and began to draw.

Seamus sat perfectly still, and if anyone had walked in at that moment, they would have been shocked. Seamus usually had a bad habit of fidgeting, but when he was modeling for Dean, he obtained a level of stillness that rivaled an oil painting -- better than an oil painting if you counted the enchanted paintings that lined the walls of Hogwarts. Only his eyes moved, flickering down to watch Dean's hand glide expertly over the paper. Dean scolded him for that; he always did. "How do you expect me to draw your eyes if you keep looking around?" Seamus didn't answer, but his eyes fixed defiantly on Dean's face because he knew this was exactly what Dean didn't want him to do.

Dean rolled his eyes, exasperated. "Lower your gaze," Dean ordered. Seamus' irises fell to focus on the ground. "And your eyelids?" Dean prompted. Seamus' eyelids dropped demurely into a half-closed state. Seamus' lips twitched and Dean knew the Irish boy wanted to smile. Dean smiled as Seamus overcame the temptation and his lips returned to their previous pouting expression. Moments later, Dean's charcoal could be heard scratching the paper again.

Finally: "I'm done." Dean laid down his charcoal neatly in its box, looking weary and almost relieved.

Seamus bounced up, loaded with energy. "Great! Can I see?"

Dean held up his finished picture without hesitation. Anyone else would have received a curt no, but Seamus wasn't like anyone Dean had ever met. The first time Seamus had asked to see Dean's serious artwork, he'd received a no. Seamus had thrown a temper tantrum and proceeded to give Dean the silent treatment until Dean gave in and shoved his open sketchbook into Seamus' hands on the way to dinner.

The smile Seamus had given him was worth it.

It was funny, Dean mused, but on anyone else, the temper tantrum and silent treatment would have been a red alert to a childish, spoiled brat. On Seamus, it was just a unique form of perseverance. Seamus had a talent for turning his flaws into virtues.

Seamus studied the drawing seriously. "Pretty good," he announced. "You got the light right, but you have to work on getting the shadows blended right."

Dean grinned. That was as close to a compliment as he would get from Seamus. It had stung at first that Seamus didn't gush over his artwork in the way the others did over the doodles on his Transfiguration notes or the banners he made for Quidditch games. In a way, though, it made him feel better. Seamus didn't give a superficial exclamation when he saw a picture; he immersed himself in the image and did his best to tell Dean how to improve. That was the way Seamus was.

The fact that Dean was a dedicated artist and Seamus was a brilliant model and critic wasn't a factor in holding their friendship together, but it wasn't a bad thing either.

The stillness in the room was nearly tangible, and Dean realized that he was staring into Seamus' eyes and, more than that, Seamus was staring back into his. "I love to draw you," Dean burst, desperate to fill the silence. His hand unconsciously traced the pattern of Seamus' jaw line, down his neck, over his shoulders and pausing on the other boy's chest. "You're gorgeous."

"I am?" Seamus wondered, transfixed by Dean's eyes.

"Most definitely," Dean affirmed.

Seamus smirked, completely breaking the mood. "If I'm so beautiful, how come you called me a spoiled brat at breakfast?" he demanded.

"You were trying to steal my toast. Besides, being a spoiled brat doesn't have anything to do with being gorgeous. Look at Malfoy. You couldn't find a better example of a spoiled brat, but he's the prettiest boy in school -- except for you, of course."

"So now you're comparing me with Malfoy?" Seamus' face was a twisted mixture of disgust and laughing.

"You really don't know how to take a compliment, do you?"

Seamus laughed aloud and kissed Dean's cheek. "Maybe not, but that's why you love me! Now, you said something about me being able to copy your homework? Let's go!" That said, the fair skinned boy bolted out of the room, leaving Dean alone in the room, touching his cheek, smiling dazedly.