nowhere boys • | d e a n

FEBRUARY 2001

Numb knuckles rapped three times on the old wooden door, then quickly withdrew. As hopeless as it might have been to wrap his arms around himself at this point (soaked from head to toe, the boy wasn’t getting warm without magic anytime soon), Dennis couldn’t help but hold himself and shiver. When the door opened, he let his arms drop to his sides, but made no move to go inside.

Dennis stood shakily, duffel bag slung carelessly over one shoulder. Clear rivulets pooled at the wrinkles and edges of his clothes, lingering for a moment before spilling in heavy drops down to the floor. He blinked away the raindrops caught in his eyelashes. “S-Sorry,” he stuttered out through chattering teeth. He’d meant to say hello, but guilt steered Dennis’ actions more than politeness, apparently. He was freezing. February had, predictably brought with it cold days and even colder nights. It hadn’t snowed, but cold rain in this city sloshed and chilled in a way that suggested that snow was only an ugly, muddy three degrees away, so Dennis hadn’t lasted very long on the streets by himself.

Two and a half weeks ago, the students of Hogwarts had been roused awake and hurried down to the train without a chance to properly gather their things. Perhaps the professors had been anxious to get them away before the dome could suddenly reappear, if that was a thing that it could do. Dennis felt resentment towards the staff and other adults at school for not explaining or seeming to know anything about the reason that they’d all been trapped in the school for so long. He also felt resentment for being forced to abandon half of his belongings in the rush to escape. What would happen to his photographs, he wondered? His folders? He hadn’t had enough time to get everything important, so he’d only brought some of his things. Everything he’d managed to grab in his hasty retreat had been shoved into the duffel bag at his side, the only item he’d been able to successfully water-proof with magic.

Hogwarts didn’t feel like home anymore; it hadn’t for a long time. In Dennis’ mind, he could remember himself returning to school for his third year, so excited to be back there with his best friends and his brother, but that memory felt worlds away from the reality he lived his day-to-day life in now. Every time he stepped into the great hall, the boy imagined his older brother’s broken young body laid out on the ground as it had been in a photograph that had made its way into the Daily Prophet only a week after the great battle. He still had that page, torn out and tucked neatly into a plastic sheet in a lime green folder. Every time he plucked a book off of a shelf in the library, the young Gryffindor felt a tug of anxiety in the pit of his stomach. It reminded him how far behind everyone else he was and how hard he had to work. Hogwarts was a building that was terribly old and full of terrible memories. Memories were tucked away into each and every brick, every cracked tile. The weight of them thrummed like a heartbeat. The castle was almost like a moving, breathing thing.

It was incredible, but it wasn’t home.

And it was for this reason that Dennis had assumed that being free of the place that he fostered such an unhealthy love/hate relationship with would bring him joy. He’d thought that freedom would come with feelings of brightness and lightness, but instead he’d felt as lost as ever. The teenager had stumbled onto the train surrounded by confused and excited younger students and stepped off of it in London realising that he had nowhere to go. He didn’t live with his parents anymore, and the boy was sure that the monolith that was Hogwarts was somehow aware of that fact, in the strange way that it magically seemed to know all kinds of things (other than the important ones, of course, like how to get out of The Dome). The walls and the beating heart of Hogwarts knew him intimately. They knew his pain and the pain of all of those who’d lost loved ones there. They knew his joy, after living as a muggle, of finding an incredible home full of wonderful and awe-inspiring things. They knew about his love for his brother. And as much as he hated Hogwarts, stepping out into the train station reminded him that there wasn’t anyone or anywhere else that really knew him at all.

And so he was here. It had taken him two weeks to get here. Two weeks of stalking the streets of London, using all of the spells he remembered to help keep himself sheltered and fed. Of course, Dennis wasn’t the eager student he’d once been. He didn’t know how to conjure things or keep himself hidden for days at a time with magic, but he’d been able to use what he had in his bag to sleep relatively comfortably in hidden public spaces in London. The worst part hadn’t been getting wet, or difficulty finding food. It had been his own anxiety and his own paranoid thoughts. Dennis was an introverted boy, and he really did need time on his own. But two weeks in total isolation – when he was completely out of control – was too much for the Gryffindor. Not unlike a different time of stress almost three years ago, the boy had found himself walking for hours and hours and eventually he’d ended up here. He’d had to overcome his pride, but the anxiety eating him up from the inside had told him that he was weak, that asking for help showed it. He was childish, a failure. He should just walk away right now.

“I don’t have anywhere else to go,” he said instead, guilt churning deep inside him.

Of the things that kept him here, waiting to find out what became of the dome around Hogwarts had been perhaps the strongest, though, he had always hoped, temporary. He didn’t even know many people there these days. Just Dennis. That had been enough.

When the boy had left Dean had missed him. More than he cared to admit, and not just because he was afraid to be alone. It was because they shared something, some understanding of what life was like without a place. He had no idea if Dennis felt the same. The younger boy didn’t share too much of what was on his mind, and Dean had never been bold enough to ask. But he had liked to imagine they were friends, that they understood each other, at least, in that way others may not.

Had he expected Dennis to come back to him, when the dome finally came down? Maybe. He had expected him to contact him, anyway. But the week ended and nothing came, no letter or telephone call or Dennis coming to stay. He must have gone to his family, figured Dean. Whatever went on inside that dome must have been too big to just run to an old classmate after. That was what they were, after all. A couple of people who used to know each other in school, that was it. Somebody lonely enough to jump at the chance to rent his couch out and the person who’d slept there.

It hurt, but he only let it hurt a little. He’d imagined them into something they weren’t: like he’d done with Tracey, with Pierce. That was a thing he did. It was on him.

But then he answered his door to find Dennis, soaked through and shivering.

“Jesus Christ, Dennis,” he said, hurriedly ushering him inside and closing the door. “Where the hell have you been?”

He didn’t seem in much state for conversation. Dean quickly cast a drying charm and a warming charm, ruffling Dennis’s hair a bit with the intensity of it. “Er,” he said, unsure how best to tend to him, “you can have a shower? Some tea? Oh, have a blanket.” Dean moved over to the cupboard, pulling out a quilt his mum had given him. “I’ve got loads—you know that.” He shook the folds out of the quilt and held it up, wondering if draping it around Dennis would be too much. He handed it to the boy instead, feeling silly, too motherly. Was there a way to deal with a dripping wet teenager on one’s doorstep that wasn’t motherly? How would a cool mate do it? There was a reason Dennis wasn’t at his own mother’s, after all.

Dean looked Dennis up and down, trying to detect some kind of dome-based trauma in his figure. He’d read the reports in the paper from Aurors there: food shortages, dangerous beasts, all manner of unpleasantness and danger. “Are you alright?” he asked. He wasn’t sure Dennis would tell him if he wasn’t—even though, clearly, he wasn’t—but it was worth a try to ask.

“Do you remember drying spells?” Dennis muttered through chattering teeth, “I c-couldn’t remember” He’d remembered spells to water-proof things, but they didn’t last very long, and if he didn’t remember to replenish them, then he got wet and had to dry the good, old-fashioned muggle way. Dean was already on it, though, and Dennis shivered at the abrupt change in temperature as all of his clothes and hair seemed to float for a moment before settling back down on newly-dry skin. The boy touched his hair self consciously, pushing it out of his face, hoping it didn’t look ridiculous. Dean was someone he didn’t want to look ridiculous in front of.

He hated asking for help, he really did. Dennis didn’t like relying on other people. When he was little, he’d relied on everyone all the time. He’d relied on his brother, and when Colin had died, it had been like a sucker punch right into his existence. All of the things that had tied him together – all of his columns of identity, structures of self and reason, shattered. He’d had to build himself back together, and he didn’t really do a good job. He was still working on it, he thought. But that was what loss did. It punched a hole right through your chest, left empty spaces that shocked you every time you were made aware of them again. He felt aware of those spaces every time he had to ask for help.

Besides, Dean was only helping him now because he was a good person. Dennis had nothing to offer; he wasn’t the optimistic, enthusiastic boy he’d been once. Now he was just… what? What was he now? The seventeen year old thought about this as he placed his bag down warily beside the door, careful to take up as little space as possible in the least convenient way. Now he was… Inconvenient, he thought detachedly. He was just a teenager who thought about death too much and put himself in dangerous situations and took a lot of photographs. He spent too much time thinking about the past to be a proper, functioning human being in the present. “Thanks heaps,” he said, swallowing down the shame he felt and trying not to think too much. Why couldn’t he just shut his stupid head up? No, he knew that Dean was just his "friend" out of pity or sympathy or something equally embarrassing. Dennis felt particularly strongly about this at the moment. Desperation had that effect.

The boy wrapped the blanket around himself, feeling guilty for the warmth it brought, but even he had to admit that it was a good idea. Dennis hovered awkwardly before moving towards the couch to sit down. He’d been walking for a long time. He was tired. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he replied, barely registering the question before he answered it automatically. “How are you?” The boy turned his brown eyes to his older friend. “Sorry for just showing up here,” he added sincerely, “I should have owled you or something, I just…” the boy trailed off, glancing away, down at his newly dry, wrinkled hands. The boy pressed his fingers together; his hands still felt strangely numb even though they were warming quickly. “Is it okay if I stay for a bit? I only need a night. I can be gone in the morning.”

After drying him off and warming him up, Dean was now considering a cheering charm, because Dennis looked just dreadful. He had never been cheery even on the best of days, and may or may not have just been through yet another trauma, so it wasn’t really surprising to see him detached and solemn. But still Dean didn’t like it. He didn’t like it because he didn’t know what Dennis needed. What he wanted, he could find out. But what he needed… That was some innate adult wisdom that Dean didn’t have yet, the sort of thing parents knew.

Dennis sat down, brushing off Dean’s question. “Yeah, you’re fine, alright,” said Dean. He made it very clear he didn’t buy it for a second, but didn’t press. He didn’t want to make Dennis feel even more unwelcome here than he clearly already felt, if he hadn’t wanted to return until he got caught in a rainstorm. He allowed the conversation to be turned back on him. “I, well, I’m same as usual,” he said, moving around to sit beside the boy. “Don’t worry about it. Seriously.” He smiled a little, hoping Dennis would follow suit. “I’m just glad to see you alright.”

Nervously, Dennis asked whether he could stay, and Dean wondered whether he hadn’t made his standing invitation clear. Or was Dennis just that insecure, that worried about imposing? It was then when he realized that Dennis hadn’t answered his very first question. He looked deeply at the boy, who was still shivering a little.

“Of course you can stay,” said Dean. “A night, take as many nights as you need.” He paused. “You never said where you’ve been all this time,” Dean reminded him. He waited to see if Dennis would tell him, fearing the worst.

Yeah, you’re fine alright.

Dennis winced internally. He hadn’t meant to be dismissive, but the boy was used to people looking at him with pity and sympathy and asking if he was okay – he didn’t like it. It made him uncomfortable. Replying that he was fine was a learned behaviour, a defense mechanism. He was thankful when Dean took a seat next to him. Dennis was all shaken up and as much as he hated to admit it, being here was helping already. Dean’s presence made him feel a little less lost, gave him something to tether his thoughts to. Dennis felt a burst of relief in his chest as Dean assured him that he could stay here. It wasn’t as if he’d expected another answer, but this couch was as much home as anywhere else for the Creevey boy, after all. He even cracked a thankful smile. Just a small one, but a smile nonetheless.

Dean pressed to know where he’d been and Dennis resisted the urge to shrug dismissively. The past couple of weeks were something of a blur to the younger boy. Where had he been? Primrose Hill, Battersea, Paddington. He’d slept in Hyde park and under a bridge close to the city. He’d spent most of his time in his own head, the tasks required for survival not nearly distracting enough to keep him busy, especially after what had happened at Hogwarts. Dennis shifted uncomfortably, tugging the blanket around his shoulders a little more tightly. The photographs, he’d left in his bag, tightly secured in spelled boxes. Magicked to be small, hidden. He didn’t want to ruin them. So there hadn’t been much to distract himself with.

“I thought about going home,” he answered truthfully. He hadn’t seen his parents for a while now. Almost a year. The boy knew that he should send a letter, at least, letting them know that he was okay. A part of him knew that they’d be furious if they knew what was happening at Hogwarts. He’d had to fight so hard for them to let him go back. This thought made him feel disconnected. Dennis had also thought about venturing into wizarding London, but the idea had seemed too scary at the time, so he’d just stayed on the muggle side of the veil. “I slept in a hostel.” Once. “I dunno, I just didn’t want to bother you.” It was hard to say, because out loud it sounded much sillier than it had in Dennis’ head. He could practically feel Dean’s disapproval and the young Gryffindor didn’t know what to think about that.

“I should have come here,” he admitted quietly. After a moment, he added, “Hogwarts was insane.”

Dennis returned the small smile, and Dean patted his shoulder happily, feeling like a weight had been lifted.

“You did?” he asked as the boy mentioned he’d thought about going home, surprised. Dennis hadn’t mentioned his parents much in the time he’d stayed, and Dean had always assumed something irreparable had gone on between them. That was another thing he’d never asked, didn’t know for sure. He didn’t know that much about the boy on the other end of his couch, if he was being honest.

Dennis gave him an answer, finally. “Oh,” said Dean, unsure if he believed him. If he’d been at a hostel, what had he been doing out in the rain, why had he had nowhere else to go but here? But again he didn’t want to bother Dennis. He didn’t want the boy to feel like he couldn’t be here, to go back to wherever he’d come from.

At Dennis’s next words, though, he felt instantly sorrowful and couldn’t hold back. “You’re not a bother,” he said gently. “Honestly?” He cracked half a smile. “I like it better when you’re here.” He didn’t know what to say to explain why. I’m lonely, I like the company seemed too impersonal, I feel like you understand me too the opposite. So he left it at that.

“Yeah,” he said instead, “I heard a bit, but I really don’t know what happened, I guess.” He sighed softly. “Sometimes, that place just seems like more trouble than it’s worth.” It was a new opinion, one he’d never had growing up, but as Hogwarts had continued to endanger lives, it had crept into the back of his mind.

Dennis’ soft, brown gaze drifted down to his hands again. He ran his thumb over a scar on his knuckle, feeling the texture slightly raised skin out of habit. Dennis creevey liked his scars. He liked that they were so, very muggle. Many witches and wizards didn’t have any at all – why would they? –  but he had hundreds. Well, compared to the smooth, unmarked skin of his peers, it felt like hundreds. Hundreds of little, pale marks like constellations, smattering his knees and elbows, reminding him of the time Colin had accidentally bumped him out of a tree, or the time he’d gotten into a disagreement with a couple of angry cats.

One big scar down his side. A few noticeable ones on his hands.

As much as he’d spent however many hours and weeks and months wishing for spells and potions as a child (a lot), and as much as Hogwarts had changed him (also a lot) and as much as magic thrummed in his fingertips – comparable to any pureblood witch or wizard, he’d argue vehemently - there was also a small house in him. There was a quiet lane and two parents and a brother, in him. Dennis was made up of this quiet little working class family and their grey, boring home, and his scars reminded him of that. Dennis was stubbornly muggleborn, not just a wizard. And the juxtaposition of his two worlds caused him all kinds of confusion and grief. He couldn’t seem to reconcile the two.

Dennis glanced up when Dean spoke again. If he were honest, he liked being here better too. It lacked the repetitive grind of Hogwarts, and it definitely lacked the echoes of his brother and friends he’d lost. There were no lost and forgotten friends here, he thought. No anxiety or anguish when he looked at people he used to care deeply about. Here there was just Dean and his sensibly present and moving life. “Thanks,” he said again, obviously grateful for more than Dean’s last sentence. Dean understood the two-worlds problem, at least. He could hear it in his friend’s voice when the older boy mentioned Hogwarts. Dennis tried to guess what that peculiar tone was. Regret? Disapproval? He wasn’t sure and didn’t want to assume anything. Instead, he just nodded.

The boy kicked his shoes off awkwardly and brought his knobbly knees up onto the couch, finally letting himself relax. “It was messy. Crazy. I don’t know why they leave that school open. I don’t know if I want to go back…” Dennis’ lips twitched slightly, almost forming a grimace but the expression was gone in a moment. The boy leant into the couch, resting his head on the soft back. He seemed at ease, but there was an intense look in his eye when he addressed Dean again. “I don’t want to be stuck,” he said, a slight frown appearing as his expression intensified.

“There were creatures everywhere and they just kept coming and people kept getting hurt and we went out every night to fight them.” He’d left out the part where he’d only joined that group of people because throwing himself in harm’s way felt dangerous and exciting. Dennis might have been seventeen, but his magical knowledge was practically that of a fourth or fifth year student still. He’d joined his fellow upperclassmen in their dangerous raids through the forest with barely half their skill or talent. It was worth it for the adrenaline and the risk. “Hogwarts has been a pretty fucked up place,” for us. He finished the sentence in his head, including all who had attended that school in the past few years in the ‘us’ he was referring to.

“But I don’t want to be stuck without options. I don’t even have my OWLs. I don’t even know if I can get them…” Partly because of what was happening at Hogwarts and partly because he didn’t know if he was clever enough to scrape more than ‘A’s or less. Were a few ‘A’s useful in the wizarding world? He didn’t know. The boy felt a flash of jealousy for the witches and wizards that just knew those things. The kids who had parents and contacts to teach them. And older siblings, he thought. “I just want choices,” he insisted. He wasn’t arguing against anything Dean was saying, however, he was arguing against himself. His own, internal warring sides. His own contradictory beliefs and goals and thoughts.

Dennis finally seemed to loosen up, removing his shoes and curling up on the couch. Dean leaned back, easing now that his guest was, letting him tell him of Hogwarts.

He wanted to love the school. He wanted to cherish the memories he’d lived there, that place that had made his childhood seem wonderful. But the godforsaken place kept getting into trouble. Even the defeat of Voldemort hadn’t made things any better, it seemed. “Every night?” repeated Dean as Dennis spoke, horrified. It sounded apocalyptic, worse than anything that had ever happened when he was at Hogwarts. “I don’t blame you, for not wanting to go back,” he said.

How could he blame Dennis? He hadn’t gone back himself. He had stopped caring about learning magic, the war had exhausted the desire right out of him. He hadn’t wanted that world anymore, not for a while. One of the things he admired about Dennis was that he had been determined enough to face it again.

“I can’t tell you what to do,” he said. “I never finished school. I just didn’t fucking care.” He gave a small mirthless laugh. “There are things you can do,” he said more gently. “And if you need to know a spell, look it up, teach yourself... But you would have fewer options, without O.W.L.s.” Dean looked over at him and nudged him encouragingly. “I think you should go for it. You’ve only got part of a year left.” He shook his head. “And if you really don’t want to go back, we’ll find you a tutor or something. You want choices, we’ll get you choices.”

It sounded a bit weird to him, once he said those things. The extent to which he’d involved himself in Dennis’s future. But God, did he not want to see him fall through the cracks. He didn’t want to see him not have everything he wanted.

Dennis nodded blankly. It had been every night, by the end. “It wasn’t like that the whole time,” he added hastily, “just at the end. In the beginning the most dangerous thing in there was everyone’s boredom. Trust me, you do not want to be around when @Jessalyn Russell runs out of – god forbid – foundation.” The boy mock shuddered at the idea. Jess’ older sister Elisha had been around Dean’s age at school. Thinking about it, Dennis decided that it felt good to be able to say god forbid. Sometimes when he was around a lot of other magical folk, the boy changed his syntax to reflect them better. Merlin forbid, he thought vaguely.

The boredom thing had been a joke, but Dennis added, “I ran out of film,” and suddenly it didn’t feel so funny. Maybe he shouldn’t poke fun at Jessalyn and her make-up obsession. Running out of film had been heartbreaking. After less than an hour here, Dennis could feel himself relaxing into a more comfortable flow of conversation with his older friend. He hoped that Dean didn’t think of him as a child, but a friend. Imagining Dean picturing him as some little kid he had to look after irked Dennis. 

The boy briefly wondered if he should maybe try to connect with other muggleborns at Hogwarts. It had been suggested to him early on, when he’d had many meetings with McGonnagall to discuss his progress, but he was so reluctant to connect with anyone that the idea had made him wary and anxious instead of comforted. A part of him immediately guessed that other witches and wizards in his position were probably stronger and more capable than he. He knew a lot of people had died in that castle, and Dennis hated the idea of playing the victim when he knew other people had lost more than he had. That thought made his heart twinge a little though, because Colin had been everything for the Gryffindor boy.

We’ll get you choices.

Dennis didn’t know if Dean meant what he was saying, or if he was just trying to be encouraging, but the younger boy felt something in the pit of his stomach that was definitely uncomfortable, but not entirely unpleasant. He was grateful, too grateful to acceptably translate into words – at least too grateful to translate into words that didn’t make him sound like an idiot, he thought – but he hoped selfishly that Dean could just tell. The boy didn’t know what to say, so he just gave a hopeful crooked smile that made his cheeks dimple a little.

“I wouldn’t put that on you,” Dennis said after a moment, his voice quiet. He felt like Dean would protest, but it was in his nature to decline offers of help and support – no matter how badly he needed them. “But thanks.” The seventeen year old shifted in his seat a little, getting a bit more comfy. “How’s the tattooing going? Do you have any new ones?” Dennis remembered sitting in this very room and letting Dean etch permanent pictures into his skin. The teenager didn’t take his shirt off much in school, so he doubted that any of his dorrmmates had seen it. He wondered what they’d think.

Dean laughed. It felt good that Dennis was making him laugh now; hopefully whatever he was doing was working. Hopefully he was starting to feel comfortable again. “Sounds like hell,” said Dean, imagining his class cooped up together for months. “Don’t know how you didn’t start biting each other’s heads off—“

But then Dennis sobered again, and the moment was gone.

“Did you get anything good while you had film?” asked Dean. Maybe asking about his photography would get him talking. Or maybe it would just make him sad, he didn’t know. Grief was like a minefield, all the little hidden things that made you remember, and photography seemed like it would bring up memories of Colin. It made Dean wonder why Dennis did it.

Maybe he was braver than Dean was, and wanted to remember.

He was glad everyone he'd lost had other people to remember them. Families, better friends. People who didn’t do their best not to think of the nights they’d shared over a campfire or the conversation they’d had in the common room once. People who didn’t run from memories.  No one deserved that when they were gone.

He rolled his head back and looked at the ceiling, willing away dark thoughts. He had Dennis with him now, the last thing he should be doing was wallowing.

“Sorry if I’m, I dunno, overstepping,” he said quickly. “I’ll get my nose out if you want me to.” He gave an apologetic grin and allowed Dennis to change the subject. “I’m thinking about getting one, actually,” he said. It had been part of the many things he’d been thinking about lately. “Something nice about the collarbone, I’m not sure. What do you think?”

“Oh we did bite each others heads off,” Dennis replied quickly. It hadn’t been too bad for him, but that was probably just because Dennis didn’t really have any friends. He didn’t spend enough time around other people for them to annoy him. He’d felt lonely and isolated and Christmas had almost made him cry again – and he hated crying – but his problems were more to do with himself than other kids. Students, he corrected himself internally, a slight frown creasing his forehead before his thoughts moved on and it disappeared from his expression. Dennis didn’t like being grouped in with the other “kids”. Sometimes he felt so many years older than his peers, even the ones that were the same age as him. Watching them exchange notes in class or steal clandestine kisses in quiet corridors made his heart hurt. He wanted in. He wanted to be a part of it. He wanted to feel his youth, but sometimes it was as if that door had closed a long time ago. He mourned for the childhood that had died with his brother.

Anything good? Dennis looked puzzled for a moment, as if Dean’s question didn’t quite compute. Then he realised that Dean thought that he took photos of things as a hobby, like a real photographer or at least someone who loved photography. Like Colin. “Yeah sure,” he said with a slight nod. The boy sat up straight for a moment, glancing over his shoulder at the bag he’d dumped unceremoniously on the floor by the door. “I developed a bunch of stuff. Maybe I should sell my shots to the Daily Prophet,” he joked, slumping back down in his seat. In truth, Dennis took photos because he had an obsession. It had started many months after his brother’s death, when he’d finally been brave enough to start going through Colin’s things. All of his old photos and his camera. At first, Dennis had started taking pictures of his family and their house. He’d taken pictures of everything from his dad cooking fried eggs to his mum’s tired face coming home from work.

He had lenses for all kinds of things now; lenses to slow down the flutter of bees’ wings flapping, or lenses that allowed him to photograph meteors and stars. He took photos of everything – reaching for his camera was his first instinct whenever he saw something interesting or beautiful or ugly or memorable. Dennis was obsessed with the idea of capturing moments; his obsession was fueled by his fears of forgetting; fears of running out of time; fears of dying. Some of his photos were artistic, framed in pretty ways with appropriate colour correction and proportions, but most of them were methodical, fast and quiet. He didn’t feel like an artist or a “real” photographer. He took photos of people laughing because he thought that laughing was beautiful, not because he wanted to take a beautiful photograph. Not that Dennis really thought about that too much.

Dennis shook his head dismissively when Dean said something about overstepping. He wondered if the older boy was worried about upsetting him or something, and the idea made Dennis uncomfortable. He didn’t want anyone’s pity. “Yeah, do it. Maybe a giant octopus monster thing.” The teenager actually cracked a dimpled smile at the idea of the two of them having matching tattoos. “Or you could get my face,” he added as an afterthought. “My face, just here…” Dennis reached over and tapped one long finger against Dean’s shoulder.

Dennis looked confused and panic immediately began to gather in Dean’s gut. That had been the wrong thing. He hated to show how little he really knew Dennis, wanted to be the best friend. The one who was worthy of coming to in a time of need. Before he could do anything else though, Dennis replied, having composed himself. “Er, yeah,” said Dean, forcing a chuckle at his joke. “Tell the world the real story. Jessalyn Russell and her foundation.”

In truth he was interested in seeing those photographs. From what he’d seen of Dennis’s pictures they were plain but poignant in their plainness, frankly revealing. He wanted to know what Dennis thought in that dome, what he found worth of capturing. He felt like that would give him more insight than this.

But talking was pleasant too. Seeing the boy relax, lean back in the cushions, smile at jokes. “Oh, that’s a good one,” said Dean with a small grin. “Wonder if anyone’s ever gotten a tattoo like that before.” Then Dennis suggested his own face, poking his shoulder where it would go. Dean laughed freely and it felt good. “I might take you up on that, I might,” he replied. “What better way to honor our friendship than putting your head on my body forever? You could get mine, we’d match.”

They were both smiling on their ends of the couch, and Dean watched the younger boy contentedly. He had really missed this, having someone to laugh with, to live with. He didn’t know if Dennis had. Probably not if he’d been so determined to stay on his own. But Dean was going to be selfish and enjoy it while it lasted.

“You need anything else?” he asked. “You want to do anything? We can just talk more, or watch television, or whatever. Unless you want to sleep?” He shrugged. “Whatever you want, mate.”

“Matching tattoos, how quaint.” Dennis glanced down at his right arm, picturing the image of Dean’s smiling face etched into his skin there forever. “I love it,” he joked, looking back up at his friend with a grin. Dean was smiling and there was a sentimental kind of look in his eye that made Dennis look away, a hint of pink in his dimpled cheeks. It made him feel strange. Maybe it had to do with the fact that it had been a little while since someone had really paid attention to him like this; a while since someone had really tried to make him laugh or smile. He didn’t remember the last time someone had dried him and handed him a blanket. If it had happened, he thought, it had happened practically in another world.

The Gryffindor distracted himself by looking down at his hands again, and the little scratches over his knuckles. “I am pretty tired,” He conceded, but his words were almost a lie. Dennis was tired, and hungry, too, but he didn’t want Dean to leave. The teenager had been starved of human contact, and the lack of human interaction sent pangs of hurt into his body that were far worse than the hunger he felt right now. A part of him wanted to reach out and touch Dean again, in part to make sure he was actually real and in part just because he knew that it would feel nice.

But rather than admit this or express his weaknesses or ask for help, Dennis gave his friend another smile, a thankful smile. “I haven’t slept properly for a while,” he added. This couch knew him as well as any piece of furniture could know someone, he thought. Tomorrow, perhaps, he’d overcome his pride once more and ask if he could have some food – he was sure that Dean would hate the idea that he even felt the need to ask – and maybe he could spend some more time with his older friend. For now, though, Dennis’ guilt complex demanded that he give Dean some space, rather than force him to interact. At some level, Dennis knew that these thoughts were irrational. If he was burdensome, or a bother, or if Dean genuinely didn’t like him, then why were the pair sitting here now, laughing and joking about getting each others’ faces tattooed on them? But these rationalisations went over his head, or stayed deeply rooted somewhere in Dennis’ unconscious mind. 

Being with Dennis was an odd feeling of being both too old and too young at once. Too grown to be friends with a teenager, too immature to be friends with this boy whose suffering had aged him. Who said things like “How quaint” at his dumb jokes. Dean felt stupid in that moment. But then Dennis played along, turning back to him with a smile.

He ought not to overthink this, thought Dean. Just treat him like anyone. Be himself.

The interaction was coming to an end, however, before he could exercise his new resolve to try less. Dennis admitted he was tired, and Dean nodded. “No problem,” he said. It was almost the opposite of a problem. It was something he could do for him easily, and giving Dennis what he needed made him feel useful, made him feel better. “You can stand up,” he said. “I’ll get the couch set up. Do you have anything to sleep in?”

Dean removed the cushions and began to unfold the pullout couch, remembering when the metal mass was half atop him that he could have done it by magic. He followed through manually anyway. May as well finish what he started. To make up for it he summoned a comforter and pillows, guiding them to rest neatly folded at the head of the bed.

“Is that it, then?” he asked. “I’ll let you sleep.” He was tempted to reach out and smooth a hand soothingly over Dennis’s hair, but settled for a pat on the arm. “’Night, Den.”

And he retreated into his room and closed the door, letting the boy in the living room have his privacy. As he undressed he hoped Dennis had everything he needed, that he was comfortable enough to ask. As he lay down to sleep he wondered if he would be there in the morning.

Dennis hopped to his feet and helped Dean take the cushions off of the couch, despite the older boy’s obvious intentions of doing the work for him. “Yeah I have clothes to sleep in,” he answered automatically, wondering what Dean would think when he got up and found Dennis asleep on the couch wearing exactly what he was wearing now. The boy quickly resolved to wake up first. He moved a little mechanically, feeling solemn now that he’d called their night to an end prematurely. The boy’s body ached all over, his muscles protesting the strain he’d put on them the past few days. His feet were blistered from all of he walking, exacerbated by wearing wet shoes. Still, he didn’t want Dean to go. Silently, the boy wished that Dean could read his mind and would decide to stay up a little longer.

He kept his sudden onset of melancholy inside rather than let it show on his face; he didn’t want Dean to feel bad, or be confused at the way he was acting. Dennis just needed to toughen up, act more like a man than a stupid boy. He could be strong, he thought. Internally, though, Dennis gritted his teeth through the anxiety that came with knowing that Dean was about to disappear. He held out as his friend patted him on the arm and said goodnight. “Have a good sleep,” he replied, the words spilling automatically from his lips as he nodded a goodbye. The boy’s soft, brown eyes remained trained on the spot where Dean had disappeared, and for a moment he harboured a fantasy of knocking on his friend’s door and admitting that he wasn’t ready to be alone.

This fancy was fleeting, however, and the boy dismissed the idea with vehemence as he tugged his shirt over his head and quickly got under the blankets Dean had left here for him. Despite how tired he was, Dennis couldn’t help but stare up at the dark roof for a little while, his mind drifting back through recent memories, a habit that he’d never been able to escape. For now, his thoughts were fixed on the train trip from Hogwarts to London.

He remembered being a little stunned as he was ushered onto the train. He’d moved robotically to an empty compartment (that hadn’t stayed empty for long), his body running on autopilot. If he’d had any film left, Dennis might have hidden himself behind his camera and stalked the length of the train, desperate to document and keep these moments. But he’d run out of film over a month ago, so instead he found himself caught in a current of dysphoria, watching everyone else’s faces and wondering who’d felt loss. Who knew death. How many of these children had seen horrible things over the past few weeks, and how many of them would ever actually heal from it?

Tonight, he had a roof over his head and that was more than he’d had for the past couple of weeks. He was hungry and sore, but he was warm and he wasn’t really alone, despite how he felt right now. You're lucky, he told himself, you're lucky. If he thought it enough, maybe he'd actually start to feel it.