Title: Periodic

Disclaimer: I earn nothing from writing this, and these characters sure as hell aren't mine.

Pairings: None (I'm trying to go for platonic here, but if you see romance, that's fine, too)

Rating: K+ (Unless "damn" makes it T? Gosh, I really don't know; I hate ratings.)

Warnings: Present-tense, plotless, Dennis being self-absorbed.

Summary: Maybe he's just constructing a version of her to suit his own narrative, but he really can't get her out of his head.

Word Count: 3,300 (I'm so sorry; I'm cursed like that)

Prompts: camera, season, Dialogue: "S/He already told me."

Author's Note: This was written for Round 2 of the Finals of the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition.

Warning: I was not allowed to tell you who "she" was. Basically, the overall round prompt was that my teammate chooses a character for me and I'm supposed to write about him/her without using his/her name at all. At the same time, though, it's supposed to be "obvious." So here I am. Hoping it's obvious. Dennis is focalised on _. Fill in that blank. Please don't review saying, "Who the hell are you talking about," because I'm literally forbidden from telling you. You are free to guess, though!

On a personal note, let's be honest here. I've been drained lately. There are days when I just want to stop writing and abandon this account, but then I remind myself that I have many people who support me here, and leaving FF would mean leaving all of them, and I'm not at the point where I want to do that. For now, I'm just taking it a day at a time, trying to concentrate on my schoolwork and also trying to keep my mind open. I still have a story I want to write for someone, and I still have my WIPs. It's just. I guess I just can't bring myself to write at the moment. My muse has left me bereft, that jerk. I hope he or she will come back soon.

Anyway. Here's Dennis Creevey with a story to tell. I'll leave him to it.

Autumn

He feels the satisfying crunch of dead leaves underneath his boots as he meanders through the forest, pushing against the weight of the camera on his chest. The air is almost as crisp as the leaves, keeping him suspended in a state of wakefulness despite the fatigue that comes from anxious nights spent waiting helplessly for tomorrow.

He is that age when all the well-meaning adult figures in his life suddenly want to know what he will do, what he will become. It sucks. Just a few years ago, he was just some kid with a vaguely defined "future" that never had to be scrutinised, always set aside for "someday."

Now, however, the day is today, and he is getting snappish from all the questions.

As he walks, he glances down at the camera, which hangs from a strap around his neck. It may be a prop, but it is also a shield. When he wears this camera, the questions don't come. No one asks him anything, and hell, no one sees him—with this simple accessory, he becomes the next Colin. Even his mum and dad accept this identity and retreat, giving him the space to be by himself.

Then again, his desire to be alone is exactly what sets him apart from Colin. At home, there is still a bedroom whose walls are plastered with Colin's prized photographs, mementos from all the encounters he cherished. He loved people. Every time he came home for the holidays, he would pull out his newest collection of pictures and conduct an impromptu show-and-tell of his amateur work, enrapturing their parents with all the stories attached to each image. No matter how angry people got at him for his candid shots, he persisted, believing life to be beautiful in its raw, uncensored form.

When he died, he took that belief with him. Dennis, his supposed successor, sees nothing beautiful in living things, especially not people. He prefers rocks and fallen leaves, for their formations paint the forest floor with meaning. Over the post-Colin years, he's discovered the universe's silent communications, and those are the only things he finds worth documenting.

He shifts his gaze downward, intent on continuing his ongoing conversation with nature.

Ah, there's a good spot. He moves to the base of a nearby tree, studying the mushrooms clustered around the gnarly roots. Alright, so he won't write off all living things just yet.

He raises the camera, pressing his eye against the viewfinder, poising himself for the shot. If he's honest with anyone, he doesn't know what he's doing; all his knowledge is based on watching and emulating his brother a few years ago, but it never stops him from trying.

Just as he's about to take the picture, however, a foot enters the frame. He yelps and jumps back, camera bouncing against his chest.

As he looks up, he finds himself facing what for a confused moment looks like the personification of Autumn. Then his vision swims into focus and he realises he's looking instead at a person wearing a dress made of what appears to be rags of varying shades of brown, beige, and pale yellow, all sewn together to hang off her body, fluttering in the wind. This clarified vision isn't any less confusing, and it takes several moments for him to notice she still hasn't said a word, instead staring at him in tranquil silence.

"Hullo," he ventures at last, his voice wavering.

"Hi." She smiles gently at him. "Are you also looking for bowtruckles?"

At first he blinks, startled that she's talking candidly about magical creatures to what must seem like an unremarkable Muggle boy, but then he recalls they went to school together; she probably remembers his face. "Er. No, not particularly. Aren't they usually higher up in the trees?"

She nods and glances to the side. "Yes, but sometimes they venture to other trees to socialise. I was hoping to catch one in-transit."

"Maybe I can help, then. I'm Dennis, by the way." He holds out his hand.

She glances at him and pats his hand. "Yes, I know. He already told me."

He opens his mouth to ask what she means by that, but she's already moving towards the denser part of the forest.

"Come on, Dennis," she calls over her shoulder. "You can start helping over here. If you want, you can take pictures of any you find; I don't mind. They are rather pretty."

He shrugs and follows her, even though he thinks she's batty for finding bowtruckles pretty. Maybe, if he hangs around, she'll let him take a picture of that bizarre dress.

Winter

The next time he encounters the strange person is in a bookstore in Diagon Alley. She's wearing a crimson trench coat, a tangerine scarf, cherry earmuffs, and a sunshine yellow cap that brings out the highlights in her waist-length dirty blonde hair.

Stupidly, he feels like a moth as he approaches her, but the smile she gives him sets him at ease. For the first time, he is aware of his shoulders as they relax, the tension relinquishing its lifelong grip on him.

"Hey there," she says, and the words my friend are implied in the hand she rests on his shoulder.

"Hi," he responds, leaning in to her touch. "You look radiant today."

The words have escaped his lips before he can self-censor, and he blushes, realising that perhaps it was forward of him to admit such a thing to someone he barely knows, but she glows at the compliment.

"Thank you. It's good to wear warm colours on a cold day, you know. It helps the people around you feel warmer, too."

He nods agreeably; he does feel quite warm, but he's not sure if that's because of the clothes or because of the person wearing them. "Are you busy shopping right now?"

She shakes her head. "I am shopping, but I'm not busy."

"Then do you mind having a cup of tea with me?"

"Of course not. I never mind spending time with my friends."

Hours later, they are still at the restaurant, ordering more cake as they lean back in their booth and talk. She's a fascinating conversationalist, even better than the rocks and leaves. She goes off on more tangents than the diagrams in the maths book he once found lying around the house, but he doesn't mind following her wherever she takes him. In return, she listens to his attempts at conversation, her wandering silvery grey eyes cluing him in on when her interest has wavered. It's an exciting challenge, trying to hold her limited, capricious attention.

The shadows shift and lengthen in the restaurant as they sit there, leaning into each other, and by the time they've gotten up, the shadows have faded completely. The proprietor lights the candles as the two of them handle the cheque.

He nods at her. "Well, thanks for spending time with me."

She beams. "Have a safe journey home, and keep an eye out for heliopaths. I realise belatedly that my outfit might have piqued their interest."

He laughs. "I hope they show up, then. I would love to capture them on my camera."

She stares intently at him, suddenly stern. "I don't suggest that you attempt it. Heliopaths are not to be toyed with, much less captured."

He's taken aback by the statement, but by the time he opens his mouth, she's already walking away. He shrugs, knowing better than to demand an explanation from her.

It's only later when he realises he still doesn't know how to contact her if he wants to see her again.

Spring

When he finds her in a meadow during one of his nature shoots, he halts in his tracks.

She's dressed in the palest pink he's ever seen, the fabric almost sheer. With the sun behind her, her figure is well-defined, and he realises with a start that she's a woman.

He's never explicitly thought of her that way, not even in his dreams, for she's always been this ethereal enigma, fascinating by virtue of her existence, but now he can't help but find her beautiful as a person, solid in a way all his abstractions are not.

As he draws nearer, he recalls the uneasy nature of their last parting, and he hesitates.

She notices his presence, though.

"We meet again."

"Yeah." He frowns as he observes she's wearing a wreath. "Why are there weeds in your hair?"

His discomfiture causes the words to come out bluntly, but she meets his gaze and answers calmly.

"They're not weeds to me. They're simply plants that I find lovely. Tell me, how do you define a weed?"

It's the first time she's asked him a direct question, and he's wrong-footed. He shuffles, trying to formulate an answer that won't make him look ignorant. Despite her dreamy nature, he's noticed a sharpness in her eyes; even when he thinks she's not paying attention, she sees more than she lets on.

"Well, weeds are plants that kill the good ones. You have to yank them out, or else they take up the resources of the ones you want to keep."

"And who gets to decide which plants are 'good'?"

He blinks. "Er. Whoever owns the land, I guess."

"Mm. And do you own my hair, Dennis?"

Anyone else would have spat out these words with venomous emphasis, but she simply watches him, patiently waiting to see what he'll do next. It's unnerving; he feels like a specimen placed under observation.

He eyes the straggly strands cascading down her shoulders, some of it swaying in the breeze. Owning any of it would be impossible.

"No," he concedes. "I do not."

She grins. "Then I shall put whatever I want in my hair. Now, come on. Since you're here, you might as well help me find some glitterbugs. They're supposed to be attracted to plants coated in fresh dew."

She skips off, and he runs after her, following the trailing fabric of her dress.

There are many things he wants to ask her in the gentle early morning sunlight, but he settles for the most obvious and relevant question. "What exactly do these glitterbugs look like? I'm not familiar with them."

Without pausing and without even losing her breath, she shrugs at the height of her skip, remarking, "You'll know when you see one—they're very distinctive."

He accepts this explanation as he accepts everything about her, this whimsical woman he sees only once a season.

His fingers curl protectively around his camera as they continue towards the horizon. Maybe, just maybe, he'll gather enough courage today to take a picture of a person, of her. He'd never attempted it before, always afraid it wouldn't come out as nicely as Colin's pictures, but something about her makes him believe.

Just as he thinks this, however, she breaks into a sudden cartwheel. He stops, almost tripping over his feet as he regains his balance.

"Join me, Dennis! We need to attract them with an expression of joy!"

He shakes his head, wondering how she still manages to speak steadily, even as her body is in the middle of that exuberant motion. It had to be a spell of some sort.

"I'm afraid I don't know how to do a cartwheel—I'll just fall on my face!"

"Set the camera down and fall, then! They find that entertaining, too!"

He takes a deep breath, casts a protection bubble around the camera, and does as he's told, doing a running start.

As predicted, he falls immediately onto his front, not even managing to swing his other hand towards the ground.

It's worth it, however, to hear her laughter. It's not as musical as he imagined it would be—in fact, it's just a normal, frank laugh, a laugh he could find in any bustling marketplace. Yet the context of it and the fact that they were in an empty, quiet meadow caused her laughter to fill his senses and warm him more than the faint sunlight.

Just as he is marvelling in the sensation, he's aware of a tingling on his arms and back. Hoisting himself up onto his elbows, he is confronted with hundreds of sparkling lights, and no matter how hard he tries to concentrate on any individual light, he cannot discern the exact source.

"They like you," she exclaims. "They're—they're forming a crown around your head!"

As he tilts his head up to have a look, she waves her wand, which he had not seen before. (Where did she hide it, anyway? Her dress did not have sleeves or visible pockets.)

His camera flies into her hands, and she easily dispels the protective bubble.

"Wait, what are you—"

A flash goes off before he can say another word, and the glitterbugs scatter, leaving the two of them all alone.

For long moments, he stares at the camera in her pale hands, and she stares at him.

Finally, she moves over and holds it out to him, her eyes downcast for the first time since he's met her.

"I'm sorry, Dennis."

He tries to speak, but it's like pushing water against a dam, so he gives up on speech and reaches out for the camera instead.

He's hollow as he reclaims it, cradling it against his chest.

She shouldn't have touched it. It wasn't hers.

And actually, he's not sure if it's even his.

By the time he finally snaps out of it, she's gone.

Summer

This time, he does not wait for her to appear in his life again. He decides to make himself appear in hers.

It has been months since the glitterbug incident, and he's developed the photo and hung it on his wall. It almost feels narcissistic, hanging a picture of himself in his bedroom, but it's really her work he's commemorating, not his image.

It's a rough shot, and he did not develop it the wizarding way, for he has no desire to watch his gaping mouth open and close. There is a slight blur, and the aperture setting could have been better, but—but he can see the glitterbugs clearly enough, and it really is a compliment to have that golden crown in his mousy brown hair.

It's taken him all these months to shake off the disturbance of having her touch the camera, and it also took him a while to locate her house. Now that he's here, though, right on her doorstep—well, he's not going to turn back.

It's not that he forgives her; it's more that there was nothing to forgive. At least, not as far as she's concerned. He's grateful to her for bringing that magic to him, and he's glad to have some way of proving that it happened, that it wasn't some desperate, wishful dream.

At the same time, though, the shock of someone else touching his shield made him realise how important it was in the first place. All this time, he's been living half-heartedly, playing at being the updated version of Colin, lying to his parents that he's just training, just working on his craft, when really he's desperately clinging onto someone that's been gone for years.

She knew that, he realises. It sounds silly, since they've only had three encounters thus far, but he gets the feeling that she knows that photography is not his calling. Not once has she ever asked about his pictures or his future aspirations, and the fact that she made him let go of the camera in the meadow…maybe it meant she wanted him to put it down, open himself up to the world in front of him, rather than hiding behind a viewfinder?

He's not sure of this theory—maybe he's just constructing a version of her that suits his own narrative. Who knows what motivates this strange woman? Yet the theory comforts him and makes him willing to pursue this friendship, to see where it goes. He's tired of imagining her in his head; the more he imagines, the further he strays from her true essence.

He wants to know her as a person now. He might be wrong about her motives, and maybe she isn't as mystical and omniscient as he thinks she is, but he really believes that somehow, she's seen into him and understands some fundamental part of him.

He grins and shakes his head. Alright, Dennis, dramatic monologue over. Let's just knock on the damn door, shall we?

So he knocks. And waits.

The door opens as if pushed by the summer breeze; for a moment he thinks that that is exactly what happened.

Then she appears, and she looks at him as if she's expected him all along. She's wearing a blue blouse and a denim skirt, without shoes, and he's taken aback by how ordinary she looks.

"Hullo, Dennis! How nice of you to visit. Would you like a cup of tea?"

He blinks. "Sure. I'd love one."

They move into her living room, and she brings over a tray with two china cups. As she pours the tea, he frowns, almost disappointed that she didn't have clay mugs or disposable plastic cups. It occurs that he doesn't know her at all, that he's always elevated her to the level of sprite.

"Mm. Are you not really feeling tea, then? Sometimes one changes one's mind; it happens more often than you'd think."

He shakes his head slightly. "I don't know what I was expecting."

She gestures at him to stand up. "Come along. I have something much better than tea. I've been waiting to show you for a while now."

He follows, and they head up the stairs. As they reach the end of the hallway, she pulls on a rope, and another set of steps descends. Despite the possibility of looking rude, he quickly moves to climb up first, not wanting to be in the awkward position of looking up at her.

When he steps onto the wooden floor, he's at first struck with the warmth and brightness of the sun streaming in through the skylight.

She appears behind him. "Look to your right; your present is by the bookshelf."

He turns as directed, and his breath catches in his throat.

There, on a large unframed canvas, is a portrait of him and Colin in their Gryffindor robes; Colin's arm is draped around his shoulder, his smile as wide as it's always been. Dennis, on the other hand, smiles shyly. The camera strap is wrapped around both of them, and they hold the camera together.

"So—that day, when we first met—was C-Colin the he you meant, when you said he already told you my name?"

"Why, yes. We are all in the DA together, remember? He had pointed at you proudly, saying, 'That's my brother, Dennis!'"

He turns to her, still breathless. "Of all the things you could paint…why that image?"

She shrugs. "I feel like he's always with you, even now. And although you probably have lots of his pictures, there're not many of him, are there?"

It's true. He has no idea how she knows, but it's true; Colin never liked being the subject of a picture.

"Take it. It's for you."

He shakes his head. "Shouldn't you be telling me to let go? That it's unhealthy to hold onto someone for so long? That I should move on and be my own person?"

She looks directly into his eyes. "I don't know who you think I am, but I would never say that. Your life is yours. Who am I to tell you what the weeds are?"

He levitates the canvas with his wand. "Maybe I'll have that tea, after all."