Slate

Slate

Hello teacher tell me what's my lesson
Look right through me, look right through me

For a long time, when their parents were still putting words in their mouths, the kids said he was black because he was always holding charcoal and it seeped into his skin.

They eventually grew out of it, of course, but that was something Dean always remembered when he missed being a muggle. There was a lot they didn't understand. Like Seamus. He's pretty sure they wouldn't understand him at all.

*

Dean didn't want to go to Hogwarts because he didn't like things that were unexpected, but his parents convinced him, the way they always did, with guilt. Dean figured it just gave them an excuse to send him away to live at a private school, without seeming like bad parents.

They sat him down the day he left and said, "You can be anything you want to be Dean, this is just another direction you can go."

It was the most thorough and transparent lie they ever told him.

When he first saw Hogwarts, tucked into a boat with people he would have to learn to tolerate and water licking at his heels, he thought it was a palace that had been sliced and melded out of clay. Bark curled on the trees and everything and everyone sort of faded into each other. It was so different from anything he'd ever seen that, even then, he started to feel worn at the edges, but new.

*

Dean draws because he has to be good at something.

Everyone is in awe of Harry just because he's alive.

Hermoine is smarter than she has a right to be.

Oliver lives and will probably die by Quidditch.

Draco is good at being a prat.

People are drawn to Seamus whether they like him or not. He understands things.

Dean doesn't want to be the one who is just okay at everything. He wants to be the best.

*

The moment he'd stepped from the boat onto dry ground and they started to walk up the path, worn gray, a small boy who smelt like soot and sugar fell into step beside him and stuck out his hand.

"I'm Seamus Finnigan," he said and before Dean could look around to make sure that, yes, he was the one being addressed, the boy grabbed his hand. "I'm first . . . I mean, this is my first year at Hogwarts," he rambled, as if Dean didn't already know that.

Dean shook his hand, tentatively, his skin stinging at the contact. "Dean Thomas," he'd said, "nice to meet you," and they had been friends ever since.

Seamus liked to run his hand over Dean's head, playfully, and a couple of times Dean got up the courage to touch Seamus' back. It was light and smooth, like wet sand, and fell through his fingers like grains of salt. In his mind he called it tabula rasa, because he knew it was something he would never be able to paint.

*

The first time he touched Seamus, he was writing out a homework reminder on his palm. Dean could feel the ink scratching against the smooth skin, marking it. When he closed his eyes it was like a map, his own Marauder's map that paths to secret places.

*

Seamus blanches as if Dean had appeared out of nowhere and he has no idea who he is.

"You want to do what?"

"Draw on you."

"On me?"

"Yes. On you."

"You want to draw . . . on me?"

"Maybe this was a bad - "

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay."

*

The first thing he notices about Seamus is that he's full of imperfections and completely unselfconscious about all of them.

The paint is sticky but slides easily over his skin in thin lines that dip and curve. He has to tell Seamus to lie still often because he wriggles around, restlessly, until Dean smacks him lightly on the back and speaks harshly into Seamus' ear.

"Oh, you know you love me," Seamus teases.

"More like I merely tolerate you," Dean drawls and smacks him lightly on the ass.

"You . . . you prat. I can't believe you -"

Dean's eyebrow arches as Seamus sits up and struggles to get his shirt back on. He imagines the still wet paint smearing randomly across the fabric and tries not to laugh because it's random and brilliant.

"I don't take off my shirt for just anyone, you know," Seamus prattles on, getting his arms even more tangled in the sleeves.

"Seamus . . ." Dead tries to interject, not daring to laugh. Seamus looks up at him innocently. "Seamus . . ." he latches on to the shirt that is stretched between Seamus' arms and pulls him forward as he still tries to protest.

"Shut up."

Seamus' lips are dry but skip off his, smoothly, like porcelain over glass. Dean keeps his eyes half open so he can watch the shadow of his hand against Seamus' face, their bodies melding together, contrasting patterns like icing sugar sprinkled over toast. Sweet and charcoal on his tongue.

*

Seamus likes to lie on his stomach, the curve off his back dripping beneath the sheets. Dean licks the spot lightly and then pulls back and trails a line of black paint over the flat skin.

"It must be nice," Seamus says, a sleepy smile grazing his lips.

"It's okay." Dean smudges a stray strand of red away with his thumb and bites his lip.

"No, I mean this is your passion. It must be nice to have something to be passionate about."

"It's not . . ." Dean tried to say. "I'm just good at it, is all."

He brushes a trail of wet green past the gray and smiles as they blur together like rain. It's not quite right yet but he can feel it's close, like the dried paint under his nails. He can feel it stretching across his skin.

When he looks up again Seamus is looking over his shoulder at Dean strangely.

"What?" says Dean, rubbing paint from his forehead. "It's just a talent."

"But you work so hard at it." Seamus' eyes are fluttering like he's sleepy. Dean brushes a little yellow in the spot between his shoulder blades and smiles.

"Well maybe some things shouldn't be so much work."

*

"I hate Divination class," Dean complains to Harry the next day, fumbling with his books and sketchbook. "It's just awful."

"Why?"

"I'm no good at it. What's the point in doing something if you can't do it right?"

Seamus is standing next to him and smiles tightly.

"I don't mind it."

His voice makes Dean turn sharply in his direction, but Seamus' back is already winding around the next corner.

*

"Hey."

Dean sits down beside Seamus in the common room, the flames from the fire licking his feet. The fire is hot but the room is cool and he shivers, pulling his feet up under him.

"You weren't in Divination class."

"I don't feel well."

"Oh. I guess we won't . . . today then."

"No, we can. I wouldn't want to impede on your creative process."

Dean looks at him in disbelief, because since when did Seamus even know words like impede?

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Never mind. I'm going to bed."

"I thought we were going to paint."

Seamus stops and his hands clench tightly. He turns to stare at Dean and spits out.

"Well make up your bloody mind then. I know it's all you care about but I'm suppose to be your best friend . . . or whatever," he trails off.

"You have got to be kidding me."

Seamus glares.

"You honestly think this is about painting? You're the whole - "

Dean stops. "Was this what all that passion stuff was about?"

Seamus looks uncomfortable.

"I - I love to draw. I do. But I'm only passionate about the subject."

"Oh."

"Yeah. Oh."

*

Seamus pushes Dean down onto the bed with a pale smile and fingers stained with paint. His hair falls over his eyes like paint dripping.

"It's all about contrast."

Dean can feel the paint edged along his mouth, wet and oily, sliding across his lips. If he were to reach out his tongue it would be sharp and tasteless, so he doesn't. He lets it dry.

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