Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or its wondrous characters. That honor belongs to the lovely J.K. Rowling.

Warning: Slash - malexmale pairing. If you don't like that sort of thing, I suggest you turn back now and find a story suitable to your tastes. 'Kay? 'Kay.

*

Dean paused, the tip of his quill mere centimeters from the yellowish surface of the parchment balanced atop his bent knees.

It was rainy Saturday evening, and Dean Thomas was hidden in his usual corner in the common room, bathed in shadows and trying to think of what to draw. His face was screwed up in concentration, dark eyes narrowed as they silently perused the bustling room, searching for any kind of inspiration. When he found none, his gaze dropped back to parchment, which remained hopelessly empty as the minutes ticked slowly by.

Sighing, Dean let his still hand fall limply to his side, curled knuckles brushing across the patterned carpet.

He brought his gaze up from the blank piece of paper once more, this time to simply observe the doings of his fellow Gryffindors.

In the center of the crowded common room, Fred and George were, as usual, the center of attention. They were showing off some new object to add their evergrowing list of 'toys' for their joke shop. Judging by the way the first years shrieked in horror and the older Gryffindors roared with laughter, it was a new seemingly harmful candy to add to their Skiving Snackboxes. Dean chuckled as a clearly audible thump suddenly sounded throughout the dimly lit room, followed by applause from George. Apparently Fred had been the test subject that time.

Drawing his eyes away from the small crowd of students who had gathered round the Weasley twins, Dean found his gaze now on their younger brother, Ron.

He was seated in the corner opposite from Dean, his head bent low, talking in hushed tones to Hermione and Harry, who were perched on either side of him, all three observing something spread out on the carpet in front of them. Hermione was shaking her head fretfully, obviously reluctant to help in whatever scheme her two friends were planning this time, but Ron was gesticulating wildly at her, his face nearly as scarlet as his hair from excitement. Harry was laughing quietly.

Dean allowed himself a small smile before once more averting his eyes to a different place. He was surprised to find that his gaze fell inevitably on a sandy-haired boy sitting alone at one of the many empty tables.

Seamus Finnigan was perched among a stack of thick books balanced on the bench around him, nearly hiding his slight frame from view. His head was bent over a piece of parchment, quill scribbling madly across the surface, his eyes flicking up every once in a while to study an open volume spread out before him. His mouth was pinched tight in concentration, the lines around his chapped lips clearly visible, even from the distance Dean was at. Similar grooves were drawn between his eyebrows, adding a few years to his usually boyish face.

Dean studied his fellow classmate for a few more minutes, his dark eyes wandering down to the parchment every once in while in sudden hope, then sliding back up in defeat when the inspiration disappeared as suddenly as it arrived, before finally giving up and throwing the blank parchment and quill to the floor, where they remained even as he stood and stretched out his muscles, cramped from having sat immobile for so long.

Dean paused only long enough to check that no one was coming his way before striding casually forward, across the flowery carpet, to the table where Seamus sat. The Irish boy seemed to not notice Dean's presence, because he continued to scribble sloppily across his own sheet of parchment, pausing only to check his book after every sentence he finished.

He finally looked up when Dean uncerimoniously plopped onto the bench beside him, crossing his ankles leisurely in front of him. A pair of sapphire blue eyes lifted quickly to meet dark brown ones, holding quizzical surprise at his best friend's sudden appearance.

Seamus opened his mouth after a moment to say something but his words were cut off by the jaw-cracking yawn that issued suddenly from his lips. When Dean let out a low peal of laughter, Seamus glared over at him playfully, a bright red heat infused in his pale face. "Asshole," he murmured without any real heat, before turning his eyes back to the nearly-full piece of parchment rolled out over the table. The Irish boy's familiar, sloppy handwriting stretched across nearly the entire surface. It was obvious by the purple shadows blooming beneath twin blue eyes that Seamus had been working for several hours on his mountainous amount of homework.

After adding one more short sentence, ending the last 'y' with a flourish, Seamus gave a grateful little sigh and reached up to roll his parchment closed, a tired smile playing on his lips when he was finished.

When he had carefully stored the scroll in his book bag, Seamus shifted his position so that he was facing Dean, his eyes now openly quizzical. "So, whatchu' want?" the Irish boy asked, offering Dean a polite smile.

Dean rolled his eyes in a mockingly agitated manner, then shot an answering grin at Seamus. "I was bored," he supplied casually.

One thin eyebrow lifted, and Seamus's smile melted fluidly into a pout. He was laying on the offended attitude pretty thick as he replied, "What? So now I'm a last resort? Just a way to help your boredom?" He turned away, twisiting his torso just enough so that he didn't have to look at Dean, but the other boy caught the smile in Seamus's sapphire eyes. "And here I was, poor wittle Seamus, thinking I was your friend." He sniffed. "I guess I was wrong."

Dean laughed outright at that. "You're such a damn pansy," he chuckled, shaking his head as Seamus finally turned back to join in the laughter.

Then Dean turned a more serious look on his friend, his eyebrows lifted in questioning. "Nah, I just wanted to ask you something," he started slowly.

Seamus blinked. "Yeah?" he asked. And then paused. "If it has anything to do with helping you prank the Slytherins, I'm in. You know I hate those filthy bastards." He shuddered slightly.

Dean chuckled. "Not this time." He offered a hesitant smile to Seamus, who had cocked his head, and was now staring at Dean with an expression not unlike that of a confused puppy. Dean grinned and shook his head again. "I was actually wondering if you could help me with my drawing."

Something in Seamus's eyes lit up, like a bomb had went off inside the Irish boy, a wild grin instantly splitting his face. "Of course!" he readily agreed. But then his bright smile faltered, and he blinked. "But, uhh... I have no artistic talent. You of all people should know that," he added, smirking as he remembered Dean's reaction to waking up one Sunday morning, only to find a stack of his precious drawing parchment balanced on his chest atop the covers, mutilated by Seamus's squiggly stick figures and haphazard coloring. It had definitely been a real laugh for the rest of the boys in their dormitory. And it would have been for Seamus too, had Dean not reached for his throat the minute he saw what had happened to his parchment.

Dean smirked back and nodded. "Yeah," he muttered, "I know. But that isn't what I mean." He suddenly felt nervous, one hand instinctively coming up to run through his short dark hair. "I was wondering if... if you'd like to be my model."

For some reason Dean found it rather hard to finish the sentence, although he knew it shouldn't have been.

Seamus seemed to space out for a second, his expression going rather blank. But then his sapphire-blue eyes widened with excitement, a bright grin rushing to his lips as he brought his hands together in a single clap. "Seriously?" he asked quickly, his voice breathless with excitement.

Dean grinned and nodded, feeling a peculiar weight lift off his chest at the sight of Seamus's obvious joy. "Seriously."

Seamus made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a squeal, but it was drowned out by his immediate string of breathless questions. "What kind of modeling will I be doing? Still life? An action shot? A-" he began, but then his grin fell and was replaced by an open-mouth grimace of disgust. "It's not... it's not a... a nude portrait, is it?" He sounded queasy now.

"Aw, hell no!" Dean cried, feeling heat rush to his face at the very prospect. "Dude, you're my best mate. Why would I want to see you naked? Much less for several hours!" He shivered and made a mock retching sound in the back of his throat.

Seamus laughed, but it sounded just a tad nervous now. "Yeah, I s'pose so."

He fell silent for a few moments after that, Dean joining in, his mind grabbing furiously for any image other than the one Seamus had conjured up. The thought made his gut stir oddly and heat creep into his cheeks and throat.

He was saved having to say anything by Seamus's boisterous question of, "So what time? Tomorrow, maybe? How about somewhere around three?"

Dean chuckled and nodded, happy for the excuse to force his mind away from the array of pictures that had wormed their way inside his head. "Sounds good. Meet me in front of the place where the Room of Requirements would be, okay?"

Seamus nodded vigorously.

Dean grinned. "Good." He stood quickly from his perch on the bench, suddenly feeling oddly warm, and shot the Irish boy a quick smile. "See ya' tomorrow, Seamus. Three, right?"

"Right."

"Okay. 'Night."

"'Night."

This is, of course, not finished yet. I have found myself to be quite fond of this pairing, and I had this idea late into the night and just had to jot it down. This will either be just a few chapters long, or it could develop into a fic of epic proportions. Who knows.

Meg