Rating:
PG-13
House:
Astronomy Tower
Characters:
Dean Thomas Harry Potter Remus Lupin Sirius Black
Genres:
Angst Slash
Era:
Multiple Eras
Spoilers:
Philosopher's Stone Chamber of Secrets Prizoner of Azkaban Goblet of Fire Order of the Phoenix
Stats:
Published: 09/15/2003
Updated: 09/15/2003
Words: 3,731
Chapters: 1
Hits: 917

Unwritten Scenes

Ceresi

Story Summary:
The slash romance of OotP that JKR left unwritten. Harry/Dean, major-OotP spoilerage.

Posted:
09/15/2003
Hits:
917
Author's Note:
Thanks to all the people who commented and encouraged on my lj, especially the sweet

Everyone thought that he was completely unhinged.

Worst part was, he didn't think he could argue with them. What were his dreams, if not a sign of madness? Why did he keep seeing that hallway and that door, and why did he care so much about what it hid? He'd rather have nightmares about his parents again, really. At least they would make sense.

Harry sighed and hugged his knees closer to his chest, staring bleakly out the window. It was going to rain soon. The wind blew hard, bending the trees every which way, knocking leaves to the ground. A bit like Harry felt, really -- as if he was being twisted around by things he didn't understand, pieces falling off all over the place. He had a headache from clenching his jaw, biting back his habitual rage.

He thought bitterly about Seamus's accusations from a few days ago, and then felt guilty. Sometimes it seemed like Seamus wanted to apologize to him, and then sometimes he found himself on the receiving end of a fierce glare. But at least Seamus didn't run around spreading gossip about him, having found it either too girly or too Slytherin for his tastes.

Someone opened the door to the dorm. Harry hunched over, struggling to blend in with the window.

Dean's voice rang out. "Harry?"

Harry sighed again and looked over his shoulder. Dean peered around Ron's bed and caught sight of him on the window seat. "All right there, Harry?"

Harry shrugged. Dean came and stood beside him, hands shoved casually in his jumper pocket, his hair askew. Harry darted a glance at him and wondered why he let it get so long. If he kept it up, he'd wind up looking like Hermione.

Dean glanced back at him with unnerving dark eyes.

"I'm good," Harry said, looking away. "Just a bit of a headache."

Dean nodded and went to his bed. Harry thought he was preparing to leave, but when he came back he was holding a necklace. Harry looked at it dubiously.

Dean cracked a grin. "It's an Anti-Headache Charm," he said. "I swear. I bought it in Hogsmeade last year -- don't like to wear it all the time, it makes me a tad hyper, and my hands shake. But it should make you feel better."

Harry started to hold out his hand, then take the necklace, and his hand collided with Dean's. He felt awkward, clumsy, and drew his hand back, opening his mouth to say thanks, but no thanks.

Dean slipped the necklace over Harry's head before he could argue. Harry felt his face color, his ears grow hot.

There were rumors about Dean, of course. Ginny had mentioned them off-handedly over the summer, while they repaired an old grandfather clock. Fred and George, he remembered, exclaimed their disgust, prompting Ron, Ginny, and even a reluctant Hermione, to laugh.

Harry had been uncannily reminded of a Vernon Dursley speech, and had found himself frowning -- by chance, he'd glanced over at Sirius, and caught him watching the twins with an odd expression. Not wanting to be a part of whatever made that dark look cross Sirius's face, Harry kept his mouth shut.

He'd thought for a moment that Sirius was going to say something to the twins, perhaps telling them in his cool way that they were being immature, or stupid, or something, when Lupin got to his feet -- he'd been helping them fix the clock -- and changed the subject. He cast Sirius a sort of warning glance when he thought no one else was watching, and Harry figured Lupin was worried that Sirius would set Mrs. Weasely off again.

Now, Harry watched Dean from the corner of his eye as the taller boy leaned against the windowsill, watching the lake with a serene expression. It was probably just gossip. Harry ought to be an expert in the stuff, after all. Dean was artistic, thin, and graceful, a little girlish, maybe. People were just . . . stereotyping, that was the word. Like the Dursleys.

And Harry did not want to seem like the Dursleys, epitome of everything he hated. He didn't want to think that Sirius would give him that look, eyes slightly narrowed, mouth pressed shut tight like he longed to say something and was forcing himself to stop.

Harry rubbed his temple, surprised to note that his head did feel better. Dean glanced at him, smiling faintly, eyebrows lifted. "Thanks."

"Sure thing." Dean returned to lounging. Determined to be polite -- and grateful -- Harry adjusted himself, giving Dean room to sit. With a quick nod and another small smile, Dean took it, managing somehow to tuck his long legs under him.

They sat in silence, both of them looking over the grounds. Harry's eyes kept returning to the sky, watching the thick clouds that skated across it. He wanted to be in the air, the wind carrying him, sending his broom off-course, making his heart pound.

"D'you mind if I open the window?" Dean asked.

Harry shook his head, reaching over and flipping up the latch for him, pushing it open. Wind gusted in, shockingly strong, carrying with it the scent of rain and fresh air. Harry found himself grinning and caught Dean's eyes on him, amused by his amusement. Silence descended again.

Harry scratched his wrist beneath his watch idly, noting once again that it was an hour off. But Mr. Weasely had intended well. And Harry was used to it by now.

"That's a good picture," Dean said suddenly, nodding towards the sky. Harry tried to look at it objectively. "With the way that the sunlight lights up the grounds, and the sky's all dark and patchy? Good contrast." He sighed. "Wish I had my camera."

"You've a camera?" Harry asked, thinking immediately of Colin Creevy.

"Not like Colin's," Dean said, lips quirking into a smile. "It's a newer one that uses batteries. I brought it last year and it wouldn't work on the grounds -- Hermione said it had to do with all the magic in the air."

"Cool," Harry said, impressed. "Not the magic in the air, but -- I didn't know you liked photography."

"Art photography."

"You still draw stuff, though?"

"Yeah."

Harry nodded, letting the conversation go as wind gusted again. As much as Dean itched for his camera, Harry itched for his broom. Every scent of the wind made something in him ache.

Dean was looking at him again. Something about the way he did it was very disconcerting; maybe it was the calmness in his expression, or his dark face and darker eyes. "You all right, Harry?"

Harry, who'd been feeling better ever since Dean showed up, was a bit surprised by the question. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"Seamus is a bit of an idiot, you know."

Harry grinned. "Yeah."

"He doesn't really think you're mad, he's just angry that everyone seems to think he does." Dean turned and stretched his legs, turning his face to peer at Harry. "Some of the fourth-years -- Ginny and Colin, and my sister, I think -- they're telling the first-years he's a Slytherin, and they're believing it."

Harry snorted, remembering the way that Ron called the first-years midgets. "First-years'll believe anything."

Dean nodded. "Yeah, but it gets old. I asked Liz to stop, but Ginny's really furious with him."

"I didn't ask her to do anything like that," Harry said a little defensively.

"Didn't think you did." Dean regarded him with mysterious eyes. "Just telling you about it."

"Oh."

Harry felt clumsy and stupid again. Finally, he asked, "D'you think it would help if I asked them to stop?" Dean glanced at him. "The first years, I mean?"

"Probably not," Dean said imperturbably. "They're scared of you. It might be better to talk to Seamus instead." Harry's mouth went tight. "Or, you know, not."

Harry laughed, flashing a quick glance at his roommate. Dean grinned, eyes still slightly hooded and laconic.

"Harry?"

Harry glanced over attentively. "Yeah?"

It happened quick. Dean reached over and put his hand on Harry's cheek, his thumb brushing his temple, his fingers in his hair, and then he kissed him.

Light and brief. It felt like the sort of kiss that Harry'd seen Angelina give Fred as she was leaving the common room, casual and swift. Fred had grinned at her and gone back to talking with George and Lee, biting his lip a moment later. Harry had felt stupid for staring.

When Dean backed away, Harry bit his lip. It tingled, his stomach churned. Static electricity rose the hairs on his arms. He wanted to . . . .

A reply was demanded by the silence.

"Er, I." Harry tried taking a deep breath. It didn't really help a great deal. "Er."

There was another long pause, and then Dean looked away. He was smiling faintly, maybe even with a hint of sadness, but it was hard to tell with Dean.

"S'alright," he said vaguely, voice a tad too low. "You don't have to say anything."

Harry really felt like he did. He wanted to tell Dean he wasn't gay but he was sorry for . . . well, whatever. Sorry. And not angry or anything. It didn't bother him, and the kiss had been kind of nice, in a 'let's-not-do-this-again', kind of way, but that wasn't his fault.

Dean was already picking himself up, however, putting a little distance between them. Harry felt relieved and then guilty for feeling relieved. He wondered if he was supposed to give Dean back his Anti-Headache Charm, now, if that was how things worked. He wondered if he was supposed to tell Ron and Hermione about this. Ron would pull faces and Hermione would look tentatively sympathetic, smiling at Ron's jokes.

Dean started to leave. Harry glanced back at him and he caught the look on Dean's face - not much of a look, really, sort of blank and quietly unhappy - and their eyes met. Harry forced a smile, hoping it wouldn't be taken the wrong way, and Dean returned it.

"I'll talk to you later, Harry?"

"Yeah," Harry said, impressed at how normal his own voice sounded. "I, er -" won't tell anyone , he'd thought to say, but that was a little bit tactless, and unnecessary, anyway. Dean seemed to read his mind.

"Thanks," he said, and then he was gone.

Harry waited till he was sure that he was gone, and then he reached up and touching his tingling mouth. He'd never kissed anyone before. He wondered if it was always like that. He wondered . . .

He let his hand drop.

~~~

There was a cycle to it.

It was sick and a little sad, but it was a cycle. Harry would start it out by distracting himself, desperately, thinking about anything, anything other than Sirius. School, Quidditch, his classmates, his friends, anything. And inevitably, the distraction would lead to Sirius in a rambling, incoherent way, leaving Harry to his grief. And when it did, he came here, to his deserted spot near the lake.

His stomach felt as if it was winding itself tighter and tighter, his entire body rigid with tension. His head ached terribly, all the time. He was wearing Dean's charm, but it helped little.

Eventually, Harry knew he would manage to distract himself again. But till then, he was left to widen his eyes against the burning of tears and stare up at the sky, into the sun, and breathe through the pain. He wasn't weak. He wasn't . He was not going to cry.

He thought about the time he'd seen Lupin crying. Nothing big or showy, or even noticeable, really.

It had been just a day after Sirius died. Lupin had been sitting in the infirmary, in Madam Pomfery's office, obviously being doted upon by the nurse. His shoulders were hunched, Harry recalled, his head in his hands. Harry had watched him for several minutes as Ron and Ginny chattered, a bit dazed, and Lupin had lifted his head - not to take notice of Harry, but to stare blankly at a wall. And Harry realized that his eyes were red, that he was grieving too.

He'd looked away, shamed, and caught Hermione watching Lupin too. She glanced at him with tears in her eyes and smiled faintly, trying to cheer him. A few minutes later, when Ron said something funny and Ginny laughed, she smiled that strained smile he remembered from a specific moment last summer. Harry had glanced at Lupin again and thought, oh.

He was such an idiot.

Harry dug his blunt nails into his wrist, grinding his teeth together. He was not going to cry. He was not going to think that Lupin must blame him for everything, that he must hate him now, that he was so alone without Sirius. He was not going to remember what he'd overheard from Fred (he and George had come to visit Ron), that Dumbledore had given Lupin time off from the Order and that he'd been staying with Sirius just before . . . .

He felt like one of those drawings of Death. He killed everything he touched - but he had Voldemort in him, after all. It wasn't very surprising.

Harry bowed his head, running his hands frantically through his hair, searching for purpose, yanking when he felt his eyes burn. He was not going to cry.

The scuff of a foot on the ground drew him from his thoughts. Harry lifted his head and met Dean's eyes as he sat next to Harry, cross-legged, his back to the lake that Harry had been watching. His hair had gotten a bit longer since their last real conversation and brushed his cheekbones. Some bits were still shorter, though, sticking up. Harry wondered why he even noticed.

"I don't really feel like talking," Harry whispered, too tense, too pained, to bother with formality. Left unspoken were the words, or anything else.

Dean nodded. "I figured," he said. "Neville told us what happened."

Harry stared at the ground, let the world blur. Over-dry eyes itched fiercely.

Dean touched his face again, but didn't kiss him, just rested his hand there, stroking his thumb over Harry's cheekbone. And it felt nice, really nice, to sit there and let him, because no one ever touched him and he wondered what it felt like. He liked the way that Dean's hand felt, bigger than his own and more elegant looking, his palms so much paler than the rest of his skin.

Dean's other hand tugged off Harry's glasses, making him shiver helplessly. His dark eyes were a blur to Harry without them, but he knew they'd be mysterious either way.

Long, thin arms caught at him, pulling him close. Harry bit his lip fiercely and let Dean hug him, resting his chin on his shoulder because he wasn't sure of what to do, shivering again when Dean ran his other hand over his hair.

Dean didn't say anything at all, and Harry didn't mind. He wished suddenly, powerfully, painfully , that he could find Sirius and tell him that he didn't mind, that he and Lupin were okay, that he could tell him anything, anything at all, that he wouldn't mind ever if he would just come back -

He started to cry. He couldn't help it. Dean held him tight and Harry eventually held him back, pressing his clenched fists into Dean's slim back and shuddering all over, sobbing with such force that his body rocked, that it hurt to breathe. The long fingers running through his hair didn't stop, the warm arms around him didn't loosen.

Harry had never felt like this before, had never cried like this before, not even when Cedric died. It felt like the whole world was sliding into a black hole at it's center, and Harry couldn't be bothered to stop it.

Eventually, Harry took a deep breath, choking back the last few tears and pulling away. Dean tensed subtly and Harry reversed the motion, pressing his forehead against Dean's shoulder.

It wasn't as comfortable as it looked on the telly - his back felt tense and his neck ached. Dean moved him around, so that he rested his head against his other shoulder, and that felt more natural. It was easier to close his eyes and press his nose against the cotton of his jumper this way, smelling air and the strange tang of acrylic paint.

When Harry pulled away for real, Dean let him. They were both silent a moment, Harry swiping at his eyes and Dean wrapping his dark hand around Harry's, gentle fingers petting his palm in a soothing manner. Harry kept his head bowed and smiled faintly for the first time in hours, days, really, when Dean leaned forward and kissed the crown of his head.

A brown hand tilted his chin up. Harry stared into the blurry vision of his face and wasn't surprised when Dean kissed him, different from last time, slower. Harry closed his eyes and tried to kiss him back, and felt wonderfully light-headed and terribly sad when Dean's curled fingers brushed against his throat. He shouldn't feel good like this; he should be miserable and cold and . . . and suffering, that was the point, he wasn't supposed to lean into this kiss and shudder when Dean's tongue brushed against his lips.

But he didn't want to be miserable. He really didn't. And if he kept thinking like this, he was going to wind up crying like Cho, and he didn't want that, either.

Dean's hands cupped Harry's face, his fingers threading through his hair. They broke apart again.

Harry searching his brain for something to say. Instead, he reached up, his fingers finding one of Dean's too-long locks of hair, surprised at how rough it felt under his fingers, and yet soft.

Dean kissed the curve of his jaw. Harry shivered.

"We should go inside," Dean said at last, practical as always. "People will wonder where you've gone."

And come looking, Harry thought. He felt a rush of panic.

Dean handed him his glasses. He brushed Harry's hair off his forehead and smiled a little. "Don't worry," he said. "I'll take care of it."

Harry blinked, a little owlishly. "I . . . ." It struck him suddenly that he didn't know Dean half as well as he knew Ron or Hermione.

"It's fine," Dean said softly, and Harry trusted him. They got to their feet. Harry glanced at their linked hands and kissed Dean impetuously. Dean blinked at him.

"Let's go," Harry said, letting his hand fall from Dean's.

He felt the concern behind Dean's glance, but he nodded, and they walked back to the castle.

~~~

"Well, I always thought that he was a bit of an idiot," Ron said. "Good for you. Just chose someone - better - next time."

Harry took pity on his frightened castle and moved it aside.

"Well, I've chosen Dean Thomas, would you say he's better?" Ginny asked.

"WHAT?" Harry jumped back as Ron sent the chessboard flying, turning to splutter at Ginny, who grabbed his robes, threw them over him, and spun him around. Ron squeaked and struggled to untangle himself.

Ginny threw a wink at Harry, and he grinned.

~~~

He was standing aside a few hours later, waiting impatiently for Ron to move his luggage, when Dean dropped by. Ron gave him a very hostile sort of look. Dean ducked past him and let Ginny haul him a short ways away, chattering. She glanced back and caught Harry's eye - "Harry, can you help me with my stuff?"

"Yeah, go on," Ron muttered, in a way he fondly imagined to be subtle. "Show 'em up - that's right -"

Valiantly fighting the urge to roll his eyes, Harry helped Dean and Ginny carry Ginny's things. She parted with them once they were out of Ron's view, darting off to join Dean's little sister, Liz.

Harry watched her go, smiled, and looked back towards Dean. Their eyes met.

Harry was tugged into a newly emptied compartment and kissed thoroughly, his bones almost vibrating from his body as Dean's tongue slipped into his mouth. He tilted his head back and dug his fingers beneath Dean's jumper, questing for the silky-soft heat that he knew was there. Dean made quiet sounds of satisfaction as Harry's fingers found his skin, his hands at Harry's hips, his fingers slipping slyly into his pockets and making Harry shiver.

Finally, they broke apart.

"I'd better go," Dean said, quietly regretful. "My parents'll come hunting for me, and all hell will break loose . . ." He sounded fondly exasperated.

"All right," Harry said, hugging him tight for a long moment. They were silent for a while, and then they parted without speaking much more.

Later, in the car with the Dursley's, Harry put his hand in his pocket, remembering how Dean had done the same. His fingers collided with a bit of parchment. He smiled to himself and turned to look out the window, forgetting to listen attentively to Uncle Vernon's furious speech about Harry's 'oddball friends'.

It wasn't until late that night that Harry was finally let off the hook by the Dursley's, having willingly submitted to virtually cleaning the house. Every punishment that they doled out during the car ride, he agreed to - he deserved them all, and more.

He locked the door and reached into his pocket, withdrawing the parchment. It was slightly worn at the corners, like it had been folded and unfolded repeatedly by Dean's long-fingered hands. Harry flicked on his lamp and opened it, realizing there were two sheets here, one parchment, one Muggle notepaper.

For you, Dean had scrawled. Write, if you feel like it. Call if you can. There was an address and a phone number as well.

Harry set the paper aside and looked at the parchment. Sketched there, in loving detail, was his own face, quiet in peaceful sleep. The date showed it to be from early in the term - just before, Harry guessed, Dean had kissed him in the dormitory.

Harry smiled and folded it again, slipping it back into his pocket. His secret. For now.

~~~