Warning: Slash!! Don't like? Don't read, don't flame for it.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

A/N: This is my first Deamus, so please bare with me. It may be kinda cheesy...but I do have an excuse! I blame it on depression!! I've posted two other stories,( Zabini, NOT Zambini and The Headache of Hogwarts) and recieved zero reviews altogether. So yeah...I write badly when depressed...

A shrug. An apathetic shrug—an actual apathetic, as in 'I don't care' shrug!! And from Seamus Finnegan, at that. Seamus Finnegan, who rarely ever shrugged because he always had something to say.

Dean's voice cracked, "So…you…what? You don't like it?"

If Seamus had liked it, all of Gryffindor Tower would have known by now. He would have broadcasted it to random years, randomly walking by. He would have given Dean that huge, satisfied smile that Dean almost yearned for these days. He would have asked to keep it, because he knew that Dean would gladly hand it over to him. And then he would urge Dean to draw more, to never cease in his hobby.

And if Seamus didn't like it…well, that had never happened before. Seamus had always loved Dean's talented fingers, always loved the sketches and drawings from people to objects. So…then what was wrong now? What had changed?

"It's alright." Seamus answered flatly, turning away from the newest sketch that Dean had flung in his face.

Dean stumbled backwards in utter shock, completely dumbfounded for several moments.

"Alright?" he squeaked after he finally found his voice. Was it reverse day or something?? Was this a joke? Was this really Seamus? It honestly made him wonder.

Seamus nodded, and repeated, "It's alright,"

The Irish boy had completely turned around, his back facing his best friend.

"Alright?!" Dean questioned again, "What's that supposed to mean?"

Seamus didn't respond right away. Actually, he didn't respond for quite some time. An awkward silence fell over the two teens.

"Shay!" Dean shouted in an attempt to break the awful tension. He needed something—anything—from the sandy-haired boy.

"It could be better." Was all he got.

Dean felt his love for life drain from him. He didn't feel inspiration to draw anymore.

The weeks slowly dragged by, the tension between Dean and Seamus more pronounced and even worse than ever. Seamus wouldn't look at Dean, but for what reason, Dean didn't know. It was Seamus who had hurt Dean, was it not?

Dean couldn't recall any wrong in his actions. All he'd done was show Seamus a picture. Innocent enough, right? He'd always shown his friend his works of art. He hadn't done anything different—but then why did Seamus act like he had?? Why did Seamus act like everything was his fault?

Dean moaned as he contemplated what he possibly could have done and concluded with, again, nothing. The dark-skinned teen lay on his bed in his dorm, starring up at the ceiling above him. He seemed to be doing that a lot lately.

Without Seamus, everything that once had seemed fun now seemed horrible. No Seamus meant no…anything. Seamus wasn't there to make him smile. Seamus wasn't there to talk his ears off. Seamus wasn't there to provide him with company. But what hurt the most was that Seamus wasn't there to look at and approve of his sketches.

Not that there was anything to look at anymore. Dean hadn't drawn since the 'incident'. He didn't intend to. He didn't want to. He didn't care. What was the use? Seamus would just shrug again and reject it.

Dean sighed and welcomed the numb feeling into his bones. He could have died right then and not needed to beg for more time. He didn't understand these newfound emotions—so indifferent and uncaring. He'd never felt so uninspired before. Sure, he hated it, but it was what he deserved. If Seamus wasn't in his life, he might as well live like a vegetable.

The floor creaked, and someone entered the dorm. Dean didn't bother, of course, to sit up to see who it was. The figure walked over and slumped down on his bed beside him.

"Dean?"

Dean sadly moaned.

"Dean, you've been like this for weeks." The concerned figure stated the obvious.

Dean repeated his pathetic moan. He had no energy to speak. He had no reason to speak. He had no desire to speak.

"It's Seamus, isn't it?" The voice softened, again, stating the obvious.

Dean didn't even answer this time. No moan, no groan, no sigh. Nothing.

"I think you should talk to him. We're all worried about you."

Except Seamus, Dean thought sourly. Neither boy spoke after this, but the figure didn't move. Dean suspected his housemate was waiting for Dean to get up and decide to talk to Seamus. If that really was it, which Dean knew it was, Harry Potter would be waiting until he died.

"So…" Harry drawled much later, after realizing Dean wasn't about to move, "How about you tell me what's wrong? What happened?"

Dean snorted. He thought that by now, Seamus would have blabbed his mouth to everyone about whatever it was that Dean had done to him.

"Okay…"Harry sighed, "How about…I know! What have you drawn lately?"

Harry knew that Dean took great pride in his art, and was sure that asking to see some of his sketches would spark something within the teen. He was almost certain that it would be enough to get the boy at least sitting up. Imagine his surprise when it made Dean emit a very low, depressed moan.

"Dean, you haven't drawn anything lately??"

A heavy sigh told him yes. Harry knew Dean—and Dean not drawing?? It just wasn't right.

"Why not?" but then, "Does your lack of drawing connect back to your fight with Seamus?"

With a nod, Dean pulled himself up. "Yeah," he said gently.

The teen bent down under his bed and pulled out the same picture that had made Seamus shrug. After examining it, Harry smiled.

"I love it." He told the unsmiling boy next to him.

"Seamus doesn't." Dean replied simply, the two words laced with pain.

"So?" Harry asked as if that fact shouldn't matter to Dean.

"So…" Dean looked down, wringing his hands as if it was the most interesting thing to do in the world.

"So…" Harry pressed. He'd gotten this far. He wasn't about to give up.

Without glancing back up, Dean admitted, "So…if Seamus doesn't love it…well…then it was all for nothing."

"Ah…I see…" And Harry suddenly understood.

Harry understood what Dean was going through—he understood what the chocolate-tinted teen felt running in his veins. And he understood what Dean could not. He understood why Seamus was mad and he understood why Dean was mad.

"You didn't show her yet, did you?" Harry spoke, handing back the sketch that Dean had just shown him.

"No," Dean hadn't shown it to anyone after Seamus had shrugged and told him it could be better.

"Well, do the picture a favor and don't,"

Dean looked up, "Why?"

"Just don't. Trust me."

"Uhm…okay."

"Good. And Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"I think I know why Seamus is mad."

Later that evening, Dean mustered up the strength to make his way from the dorms to the Gryffindor common room, where Harry had hinted Seamus might be found. Slowly, he approached the sandy-haired boy who sat all alone in one of the corners.

Before Seamus could attempt to get up and move from his position, Dean stopped him with an "I'm sorry."

Seamus sank back down into the armchair, "No…"he mumbled, "I'm the one who should apologize. I'm immature, okay? I admit it. It's just…the drawing was great. It really was. It was beautiful, and one of your best sketches and…"

Dean held up a hand to signal for him to hush, "It wasn't what you expected."

"Yeah, I guess so…"Seamus agreed.

"And it wasn't what you wanted me to draw?"

"Uh…well…I guess you could say that…I mean, if you want to conclude to that and all and…"

Dean bent down next to Seamus, eye level, and cut the Irish lad off. Not with his words, but with his lips. When they finally pulled apart, that huge grin that Dean loved spread across Seamus's features.

"Wow! That was...wow..." Seamus commented in awe.

"Ah…it was alright…"Dean smirked as the boy across from him dropped his jaw in shock. But then…he understood.

"Alright?! What does that mean??" he played along.

"It could have been better," Dean shrugged.

"Well…then I guess we'll have to try again…"

Once more, their lips locked, a deeper kiss, and a longer-lasting one, at that.

This time when they pulled apart, Dean spoke up, "That's not all I came down here for," he smiled, pulling out a folded sheet of parchment from his robes, "Open."

Seamus obeyed without hesitation. What he saw made his smile spread even wider—if that were even truly possible. There was no way under the sun that he could shrug this time or say that it could be better.

"Oh, Dean…" he said breathlessly, "I've been waiting for this one for…I don't know how long…"

"Yeah, I know…I just can't believe I took so long in figuring it out…"

Seamus's eyes sparkled, "Does this mean…does this mean you and Ginny…"

"Yeah…Ginny and I didn't work out…"

"But what about…what about that picture…?"

"What picture?" was all Dean could say.

And all Seamus could do in response was move in for one more long-awaited kiss.