I can't hide beneath my sheets [Dennis]

“Oh, that’s good!” Dean had been worried that Dennis was friendless, especially this stressful year. He probably sounded too enthusiastic, he realized, embarrassed, especially as Dennis seemed to be playing down his friendship with this kid, seemed to be trying not to make it a focus of conversation. “I mean, glad some things went okay, anyway,” he said. He let Dennis’s self-deprecating joke slide without comment. Encouraging words would probably sound hollow.

Instead he grinned as Dennis impulsively ordered a milkshake. He’d have joked about how he shouldn’t let him have ice cream for breakfast, but didn’t want to embarrass Dennis in front of the pretty waitress. He was nothing if not a good mate.

He took the photos, pausing on each one. He couldn’t imagine living with this weird, glittering thing across the sky. As he looked through the more active pictures, students fighting, preparing to fight, he wondered if Dennis had ever considered a career in photojournalism. It would suit him, he thought as he looked at the boy across the table, wolfing down his eggs. With his direct aesthetic, his talent for capturing the gist of a moment.

His thoughts were interrupted by the waitress again. “Good god,” he said as the towering milkshake was set down in front of Dennis. He considered asking for one himself, but as he looked back at the waitress he had a suspicion that anything he received might not be quite so decadent. She was looking at Dennis quite intently. Then she spoke, and Dean raised his eyebrows, fighting a grin. He hadn’t been expecting anything so overt, and from the looks of it, neither had Dennis.
   
Dean waited until she was gone before bursting out into quiet laughter. “So, are you going to do it?” he asked, eyeing Dennis’s shocked face. He hoped he’d go for it. The girl was direct, and Dean liked that about her. Reminded him of another pretty redhead he knew. “Foxy,” he said, looking down at the napkin. “Now that’s a name, huh?”

But he wasn't sure he should be pushing him. Was Dennis even interested in such things? Dean recalled the boy’s response to his earlier question about girls, brushing off the subject awkwardly. He would leave things to Dennis for now, let him take them where he wanted.

Dennis watched as Dean looked through his photos, wondering if his friend liked the same ones as he did. What did Dean see, he wondered, when he looked at old photos of their school. Dean hadn’t been there when the Carrows had been in charge and neither had Dennis, but Dean had gone back to fight at the battle. Dennis had gone back for the rebuilding, but he hadn’t been able to stay there very long. Mostly, his fourteen year old self had just wanted to look at the place where his brother died. So many of their generation would be remembered for their deaths, but Colin had died somewhere on the grounds and Dennis had never found out who’d killed him or how he’d actually died. All he knew was that his body had been carried in by Neville Longbottom and Oliver Wood.

Dennis remembered their names.

The milkshake appeared and so did the redhead. Now, Dennis wasn’t a particularly socially awkward boy. He knew how to handle himself. But he didn’t think anyone had been quite so forward with him ever, full stop. He didn’t really have a response for her and could only sort of glance between the smudgy phone number on the serviette and the girl whose back was turned as she swished away without another word. Dennis shited back in his seat and scratched the back of his neck. “Did that just happen?” He asked, ignoring Dean’s laughter. Foxy, he thought, testing the name out internally.

“Do you think that’s her real name?” Dennis asked with a frown, before adding; “There’s no point, right? I’m going back to school in a couple of weeks and besides…” The boy shrugged. The magical thing was the obvious problem there. He didn’t have to say it. Dennis glanced up to catch a swish of red hair as “Foxy” disappeared back into the kitchen, presumably to grab some more plates to serve to more customers. The mousy-haired boy sipped thoughtfully on his milkshake, poking at the ice cream with his straw before dropping his gaze back down to the table. “Have you dated muggles, Dean?” he asked. When Dennis had returned to muggle schooling for a year and a bit, there had been lots of pretty girls and lots of pretty boys and none of them had paid any attention to Dennis. For that entire time he was either pointedly ignored or pointedly made fun of, and neither were that conducive to forming crushes or connections.

Nowadays, the distance was mostly Dennis’ doing. He drifted away from people and they let him go. Sure, in the time before sleeping and after sundown he thought about it. Late-night darkness was like a conductor, a dark pool of water for his electric thoughts. They came in an uncontrollable, dependably loud current, and crashed from topic to topic, and one of those topics was love. He thought about girls and sex and he thought about crushes and beauty and relationships and boys and connections and his fear that all of those things were slipping out of his reach. He thought about the fear that he was the one pushing them all away. A part of him was curious; he wanted to know. But another part of him was worried that that train had left a long time ago and that that was a part of his youth that he didn’t get to have.

"I'm afraid it did," chuckled Dean. To see Dennis confronted with something so classically teenage made him sort of happy. He wanted to see him take advantage of it.

At Dennis’s question, though, his smile faded a little, and he ran a hand awkwardly over his hair. "I have, yeah," he admitted. It came with spending as much time in the muggle world as he did, making friends from class and going out with them sometimes. "But if what you're asking is has it gotten serious enough for magic to come up, the answer’s no.” Most—all—of his relationships had barely been worthy of the title. Maybe a second or third encounter here or there, and plenty of high hopes—he was a romantic, after all—but he had a talent, it seemed, for making relationships fizz out into nothing.

"If you're going back to school soon, I guess," he said to Dennis, "what have you got to lose?"

He remembered something Seamus had said to them, a long time ago, at their first Hogwarts feast. Something about his mother, how she’d waited until after her marriage to tell her husband she was magic. It was something Seamus had stopped talking about so casually as he’d gotten older, perhaps realizing what the gravity of that situation had been.

Dean hadn’t spoken up to introduce himself then like Seamus did. The others had turned to him eventually, and he shrugged and said something like, I dunno what I am.

His father, that vague, misty man who his mother had loved once, had managed never to tell her what he was, what their son would be. Dean didn’t know why. Perhaps there had been a very good reason. But he didn’t want to be that. Anyone he grew to see a future with would know him, all of him. He would leave no children like himself, growing up unaware of who they were.

Maybe it was good he'd never had to face that decision. Because it was easy as he thought it from a distance, but he didn’t know how he would tell someone, or when.

He chewed on a strip of bacon thoughtfully. “Well, it’ll take you an hour to eat all that,” he said to Dennis. “You’ve got some time to think about it, I suppose.”

“Ah.” Dean was spot on with his assumption. Of course Dennis wanted to know at what point Dean planned on revealing his magic to them. Dennis felt a little uncomfortable about the whole thing; a touch of his old-school Gryffindor chivalry was unsettled at the idea of omitting such an important thing. It felt like lying. A part of him was sure that Dean had to feel the same way, at least to some extent.

Dennis resumed his food-eating, polishing off his eggs and moving onto the decadent milkshake. The boy plucked the chocolate wafer from the pile of whipped cream and chocolate flakes and ate that first. “I dunno, just doesn’t seem worth it.” He gave a small shrug. What’ve you got to lose. Dennis didn’t know how to answer that question. Nothing – he supposed? The mousy haired teenager risked another look up, but he couldn’t see her anymore. Over the next two weeks he might be able to see her a couple of times, but then what? Did Dean know that he hadn’t had sex, hadn’t even kissed a girl? Dennis certainly didn’t want the flirty redhead to know anything of the sort. Dennis played it off as cool as he made his way through the ridiculous drink the redhead – ”Foxy” – had served him.

Internally, though he wondered. What would happen if he took her up on it? Where would he take her, and with what money? He tried to pretend that the logistical side of things was the real problem, but really he knew that it was all him. He didn’t know how to make friends; didn’t know how to interact with new people. Besides, what was he supposed to say when she asked the inevitable questions about who he was, what he did, where he came from? He didn’t think he could lie about all of that.

“I go to magic school where I’m learning to be a better wizard,” he said softly, trying out the words in part for Dean’s entertainment. A crooked smile appeared on his lips. “We ride around on broomsticks for fun and no, our wands don’t have stars at the end and yes, my brother was killed in the war against the most evil wizard of all time.” Okay, perhaps a little far. Dennis swallowed. “My parents are muggles like you,” he finished. The boy shrugged again, a slight melancholy in the shape of his shoulders and the softness in his eyes. Dennis finished his drink before Dean had finished his food - and far before the hour mark that Dean had predicted was up - so he sat back in his chair, a thoughtful expression on his face.

Dean’s plate was still half full. He had been too busy talking to Dennis, or looking at his photos, or just watching him eat that he’d forgotten to eat himself. He hadn’t ordered much anyway, just some bacon and eggs. Having breakfast had been mostly a formality. But Dean was never one to leave something on a plate, a habit drilled into him by his mother. He began to quickly stuff forkfuls of egg in his mouth so he wouldn’t keep them longer than they had to stay.

He swallowed a great deal of egg before replying to Dennis. “Well, if you don’t want to, then don’t,” he said with a shrug. He didn’t want to pressure Dennis into something he wasn’t ready for. He was a little disappointed, though. He wanted Dennis to learn to have fun, do spontaneous things like this. “I can pretend to be your boyfriend if you want to give her a reason,” he joked. That would probably make Dennis even more uncomfortable than turning the waitress down.

Chuckling at the speech, Dean looked down at his plate. "Maybe that's why it never lasts," he wondered aloud. “I can’t say anything like that, can’t tell them anything about me. They probably think I’m cold. Or boring.” Most of his relationships with muggles hadn’t involved a great deal of talking. It was probably best, he decided, that he keep things that way in the future.

It made him a little sad. How many soulmates might he be missing out on?

Dennis looked as thoughtful as he felt. Dean wondered if the waitress was still looking at them, watching them stare pensively at their empty plates. He glanced up, waiting for the bill. He wanted now to get out of here, this train of thought, as soon as possible.

“Don’t rush just because of me,” Dennis teased, his lip quirking into a smile despite the melancholy chord running through him right now.

“Yeah, probably not,” Dennis agreed, poking the sticky remnants of his milkshake with the long, striped straw. Now that he’d gotten Dean’s agreement, or approval or whatever, Dennis felt a little uncomfortable in here. Was she going to come back to give them the bill? Would she wink at him, push a little more? Or maybe just sort of ignore him because he hadn’t asked her out? The boy slid the napkin out from under the glass thoughtfully, his brown eyes watching as the first number she’d written in smudgy crayon or something bled into the condensation the damp glass had left there. Foxy didn’t know him at all, and she’d put herself right in front of him. He wondered if he’d ever have that confidence.

Dean’s next words made Dennis give an easy smile; his friend was just joking, after all. He did feel his cheeks touched by the faintest hint of pink though, and he hoped Dean didn’t see it. “Yeah,” he said vaguely, “Yeah, do that.” The idea made him squirm internally and Dennis wondered for the first time if Dean had ever, ever considered him in that way. He wondered how he faired against all of the beautiful men and women the boy was sure his older friend went out with. He wasn’t funny or cool or handsome. The people Dean went out with were probably all of those things. Dean probably thought he was young, he decided. Dean couldn’t know just how inexperienced he was, but the older boy probably thought that Dennis was just that – young and inexperienced. Dennis didn’t like that. He halted this train of thought because he wasn’t sure where it was going.

The boy surreptitiously pocketed the napkin and pulled his small camera out from his pocket. Dean went to wipe a bit of egg from face with his own napkin and Dennis snapped a quick shot, smiling cheekily again as he caught Dean in an unusually awkward position.

“Really?” asked Dean, amused. He hadn’t expected that. Briefly he considered going all out, putting on some kind of character, just for fun. Just to make Dennis laugh. But he figured subtle was probably better. The sort of possessive arm-around-the-waist thing he might pull if a waitress asked his actual boyfriend out.

He was glad Dennis seemed alright with him. The wizarding world in general had made things a lot easier. He’d have hated to be in muggle secondary school at the age he’d spent a whole year a mess trying to get Professor Lupin to notice him, to have been surrounded by people among whom such things were taboo. He felt a lot healthier than he could have been. That was one thing his magic had given him, he supposed. Though he didn’t think it made up for all the running and murder and pain.

"She can't have expected much," he said as he noticed Dennis looking at the napkin. "Shot in the dark, really, going up to some bloke you don’t even know. Got to accept the risks.” He himself had been shot down so often he lost track. Foxy would live. Wiping the last of his egg grease from his face, he looked again to see if she was still there, perhaps expectant.

He was distracted by the click of a shutter and looked up to see Dennis with his camera out, grinning playfully. “Oi!” exclaimed Dean. “What was so crucial to remember about that?” He was tempted to snatch the camera, to take an even more awkward picture of Dennis in response, and the thought made him wonder if anyone ever took pictures of Dennis at all. Whether he was anywhere in his box of moments.

The bill came with the pretty waitress then and Dean fished out his wallet with one hand, catching Dennis's eye before reaching over to take his friend’s hand across the table with the other.

A shot in the dark. Risks. Dennis wondered again what that would be like – pushing himself out of his comfort zone to try to get something he wanted. Then again, it wasn’t as if he ever wanted things enough to do so, so maybe that was the secret – not to just be more confident, but to want things enough to try. Unfortunately, revealing one’s wants was just a set up for a let down, he thought.

Showing up at Dean’s house last night had been an act of desperation, and Dennis was already planning to leave within the next couple of days. He was itching for a hot shower when he got home, and maybe he’d wash his clothes at Dean’s house, but really, the boy knew that he was a hassle. Not that you’d think it, he thought; Dean’s joking indignation face was anything but truly irritated. Dean’s a good person – that’s why he’s letting you stay. Dennis smiled back, but he couldn’t quite shake that voice in his head telling him how burdensome he was.

What was so crucial to remember about that? The boy was puzzled by the question. It was a strange question. He chose to ignore it. “I’m a photographer, Dean,” he teased, holding his camera aloft to one side and smirking at his friend, “I’m just catching you at your most authentic.” The boy snorted to himself, quieting his chuckles as the waitress appeared in his line of sight. He looked quickly back at Dean, who was looking rather intently at him. The boy glanced down, realising why Dean had just caught his eye so intentionally. Oh. Dennis had mostly been joking when he’d encouraged his friend to actually pretend… something.

He could feel himself blush a little and the urge to take his hand away was pretty strong, but he kept still and didn’t fidget as the waitress gave them their bill.

NPC; Foxglove Sharpe

Well, she couldn't have been any more obvious. Foxy didn't pay games. She was no shrinking violet. She liked tattoos and violent gigs, covered in cigarette smoke and beer. Her mother was disappointed at how she turned out. She'd clearly been hoping for a prim little lady-in-training but what she'd actually ended up with was Mowgli from The Jungle Book.

"In a minute," she snapped at a customer who came to order another pot of tea and Foxglove waved them away rudely as she craned her neck to watch the boys eat. One of them was sneaking glances at her but they soon seemed to stop. They seemed much more interested in each other and something on the table. It was a bit of a bruise to her ego, if she had to admit. Her lips down turned into a frown as she heaved a sigh and eventually decided to carry on with what she was paid to do.

Around she went, collecting and depositing plates, wondering when the boy was going to ask her out. Foxy was a firm believer in when not if. He'd been starting. He'd made it obvious he was interested. Whether it be in her figure, her bright hair or her oddly coloured eyes, something about her drew him in.

Half an hour had passed and she was getting a little bit agitated.

Confidentially, her slim legs wandered back over in the pretence of clearing their table. Over she went, piling them up neatly and placing them on a nearby table so she could reach into her little apron and fish out their bill.

Placing it on the table, her smile faltered a little as everything seemed to slide into place. "Ah," came the soft reply as she saw their entwined hands. Was that why he hadn't come over? Her honey coloured eyes flicked back and forth between them both, her eyebrows arched as all thoughts of a romantic rendezvous came to a screeching halt.

It all seemed to make sense, now. They had a camera. Breakfast was an intimate meal, not like lunch or dinner where anyone could come along. Breakfast was sort of exclusive. Breakfast was a very couple-y thing to do.

Foxy heaved a heavy sigh,  her shoulders slumping in defeat as she offered a tired smile to the boy and his boyfriend. She waited patiently for the money to be handed over. The petite redhead never expected a tip. Tipping in Britain wasn't really needed or forced, unlike that time she went to New York with her parents. Her dad had honestly forgot to tip and he was chased down the street by the waiter.

Now she just felt a bit guilty. Both for assuming he was single and then for perhaps making his boyfriend angry. "Well!" Foxy said brightly, clapping her small hands together, the nails of which were short and painted black. She smiled brightly, her cat-like eyes darting from boy to boy as though she was enjoying some sort of private joke and, in a way, she supposed she was.

"That's interesting," she said quietly as she folded the money up with the receipt and slid it back into her little black book. The boss insisted on it. Apparently, it was more "refined" and "elegant" than just handing over cash. "If you two lovebirds ever fancy something a little spicier," she said, her voice full of suggestion as her pale fingers very gently grazed over Dean's lapel. "You have my number. Enjoy the rest of your day," Foxy replied brightly as she turned and waved cheerily. Her eyes lingered on the camera and she couldn't help but stifle a giggle as she conjured up rather intimate photographs. Well, lucky them, she thought absently. They made a handsome pair.

“Oh, I see,” he said with a laugh. “How about this for authentic?” He stuck his tongue out at Dennis and his camera playfully. He’d considered a ruder gesture, but he wanted to make sure Dennis knew it was all in fun.

When they were interrupted by the return of Foxy, Dennis’s hand lay flat in his. Dean looked away from Dennis, regretting even bringing this up if he was so uncomfortable. He considered taking his hand away, but that would invite more questions than it alleviated tension.

True to form, Foxy did nothing to make things more comfortable.

Goodness gracious, this girl… Dean’s eyebrows shot up. Once she had retreated to the counter he turned away from her and let his mouth fall open, meeting Dennis’s eyes with a little nervous laugh. He had never been propositioned that way, at eleven in the morning at least. “Do you have her number?” he asked. The lipstick-printed napkin was no longer on the table. Dennis must have taken it without him noticing. “If you’re ever looking for…that, you know where to find it, I guess.”

They stood, pulling their jackets back on, and, just to drive it home, Dean looked to see if Foxy would notice and placed a hand protectively at Dennis’s waist.

“She probably thinks you’re looking to cheat on me, the way you were looking at her before,” Dean muttered in his ear as they left, grinning. He still, in the back of his mind, wished Dennis had gone for it. Gone after something he wanted. “Maybe… I’m growing uninterested and you want to make me jealous,” he said. “We have a very tumultuous romance.” He probably looked more than a little possessive, and Dennis more than a little uncomfortable, but that began to veer into territory he wouldn’t joke about. God knows what the waitress had thought, though.

He had been having fun with their game, but Dean dropped Dennis's waist as soon as they were past the glass door of the restaurant. He didn’t want to put Dennis through it any longer than he had to. “Sorry about that,” he said. They walked with some distance between them. “Watch out for that bit of pavement this time,” said Dean with a small smile, recalling where Dennis had tripped on their way. He was trying to change the subject. He didn’t want this stupid nonsense to color Dennis’s whole stay, and he was afraid it might.

Dennis swallowed, a little nervous about how she’d react. The teenager hadn’t ever had to deal with this kind of proposition before; he didn’t know the possible outcomes. But it seemed like he had nothing to worry about – everything she was feeling seemed to be written all over her face. Disappointment, a little guilt, and then straight back to flirtatious. She took the money with a smile and then she and her black ribbon were swishing off to flirt with someone else. Dennis watched her go with that same curiosity from before. Sometimes it amazed him to acknowledge that other people were really people. Just as complex and full of thoughts and hopes and regrets as he was.

He wondered what things had hurt her. Of course, the redhead gave of this airy sort of confidence that was simultaneously fluid and adaptable and simultaneously as subtle as a brick to the face, but everyone had been hurt by something. People were made up of those things – their passions, sure, but their insecurities and weaknesses too. Had she ever experienced death or loss? Probably not, he decided, though he couldn’t be sure. That was one thing that set the wizarding world so far away from the muggle one – at least in the UK. Dennis doubted there was anyone his age or his parents’ age who hadn’t known someone who’d died.

“Might be in my pocket,” Dennis answered mysteriously. He didn’t know why he’d kept her number. Maybe he’d take a photograph of it, but then again… maybe not. He was a sentimental boy, but most of the time he didn’t take pictures of things relating to himself. There were quite a few photos of him in his earlier years at Hogwarts; he’d been an easy model for Colin, as he’d always played along for his brother rather than swat at him for being too nosy or invasive. But none in recent times. “I wasn’t looking at her like anything,” Dennis grumbled quietly, rubbing his ear against his shoulder as Dean’s words tickled his skin.

Perhaps he’d go back sometime and take some photos of her, he thought. She was perfect for it. He was sure she’d love to be in front of the camera, but he wanted to see her when she wasn’t performing. He wondered what her life was like. “Maybe we’re both growing uninterested and we want to spice up our love life,” Dennis joked, playing along with Dean’s game. Dean opened the door for them and Dennis was disappointed when he felt his friend’s hand fall from his waist. “Sorry for what?” Dennis asked, impulsively sliding his hand into Dean’s as they walked. It was silly, really. Joking, surely.

Rather than say anything about it, Dennis asked, “What’re your plans for the rest of the day, hmm?”

Dennis brushed off his teasing words, embarrassed, and Dean pulled his head away. Maybe Dennis had just been curious like he was about those kids he’d told him about, and he’d mistaken it for something different. Maybe that was how Dennis thought about people. Not as romantic prospects but as interesting little collections of experiences. That fascinated Dean in itself. He himself wasn’t like that, as much as he’d like to be.

As Dennis played along, he laughed, relieved. "Well then," said Dean, "we know who to call."

He couldn’t hide his surprise when Dennis’s hand slipped back into his as soon as he let it fall free. There was no need to continue their little charade, so was it earnest? He wondered if the gesture was childlike, reaching out for some kind of support, protection. If Dennis was just too much of a child in his mind for him to think otherwise, or if he just didn’t want to consider there was any otherwise at all.

They walked down the sidewalk hand in hand, Dean very aware of his surroundings, the boy at his side.

"I haven't really got any plans,” he said. “I have a painting due tomorrow I need to work on, but that shouldn’t take long, I can do it whenever. Is there anything you want to do?” If it were him alone he’d probably have just watched hours and hours of television on a drizzly Sunday like this. But he had a houseguest now. He wanted to do whatever Dennis wanted. Hold hands, anything. He wanted him to feel safe and comfortable, didn’t want him to leave.

We know who to call.

“Ghostbusters?” Dennis quipped, an easy smile gracing his face again. The boy couldn’t remember holding hands with anyone before. Perhaps he’d never done it. Maybe the last person whose hand he’d held was his mum, or… Colin. The boy’s gaze dropped down to their entwined fingers. Dennis was quiet, just letting Dean’s words wash over him as they walked. The mousy-haired boy ran his free hand back through his hair, flicking away the little droplets of rain that had accumulated there.

The boy shook his head. “Nah, nothing in particular. I’d like to have a shower, if that’s cool. I have a towel.” He’d also like to do some washing, he thought, but that could wait. At the moment, his hands and neck felt sort of damp and clammy and cold and there wasn’t anything for that but to have a shower. “Don’t feel like you have to do whatever I do. I might go for a walk later.” Mostly, he just wanted to give Dean some space. He wanted to make sure his friend didn’t feel like he had to be watching him – catering for him – all the time. Dean was just like that, he thought. He wanted to make other people happy; he wanted to keep them safe. Dennis didn’t like someone feeling like they were responsible for him. He hadn’t really had someone like that for some time.

The boy dropped his friend’s hand as they got back to Dean’s place. He tucked his hands into his pockets, unintentionally feeling for his camera and his photos as Dean unlocked his door. Dennis wondered how he’d make money after school, and if he’d be able to get any sort of job in the wizarding world. Dean had done it. A part of him felt like it was impossible. He still felt so behind. So incapable. Who would hire him? The boy swallowed these thoughts down as he entered Dean’s house, moving to remove his shoes and jacket and store them next to his bag. He took up as little space as possible.

“Oh yeah, they would spice up our relationship real quick,” Dean replied with a grin. He idly swung their hands a little as they walked. He wanted to feel like a kid, hands linked with a friend, the gesture pure affection and nothing loaded. But they were adults and it was loaded. He wondered, uncomfortably, what Dennis thought of him. Was that his intention? Ought he to have stopped it?

But if he acknowledged the awkwardness, Dennis would panic and run. The boy was a butterfly on the hand, and Dean feared one wrong move would make him flutter off. He feared leaving Dennis to his own devices, feared he wouldn’t take care of himself. When he showed up it didn’t look like he had been.

So he would be nothing but accommodating. “Go ahead,” he said. “Place is all yours.” Dennis’s next words, though, made him feel guilty. “Oh, no, that’s fine,” he said. “I just didn’t have anything to do, that’s all.” Dennis didn’t want him to be like this, to put him first. He would have to just go about his day, pretending he had other things on his mind, and let his friend be as unobtrusive as he wanted. He had been trying so hard not to be a parent, and perhaps that was the difference.

Dennis let go of his hand so he could fish out his keys and open the door. “You know where everything is,” said Dean as the boy took off his shoes. “I’ll just be…around, I guess.” He shrugged, looking around. He didn’t know what else to do without being too overbearing for Dennis, figured he should just let him be.”

Dennis packed his jacket neatly inside his bag and grabbed his towel and a few other things. His mum would be proud, he thought wryly.  When he was by himself, Dennis was never this neat. When he was by himself, the idea of making himself smaller, less annoying and taking less space never occurred to him. He left clothes strewn all over the floor, forgot to wash his sheets for weeks and did sniff-tests before throwing on a t-shirt, because clean clothes and dirty clothes seemed to have a mysterious way of getting mixed up. Dennis wasn’t so big on keeping things tidy and clean, but he was big on courtesy and he already felt like he owed Dean too much. As much as Dean tried to say it, the house really wasn’t all his. Dennis had no claim here.

So he zipped his bag up and pressed it neatly against the wall when he was done, tucking his shoes next to it. He tried not to wonder about what was in Dean’s bathroom cupboard, though a part of him knew that as soon as the shower was running, he’d open it up and methodically take note of everything that was inside. He didn’t know why he was so compelled to do it. This apartment wasn’t particularly marked with Dean’s things, or Dean’s presence. It could belong to anyone. And as much as they were friends, Dennis felt like there were a lot of things he couldn’t speak of or ask about without looking stupid or feeling uncomfortable. Maybe going through Dean’s things was a way of getting to know him better without wasting his time, or taking up his space.

“Hey Dean,” Dennis folded his towel over his forearm and hopped up. The young Gryffindor tapped Dean on the shoulder as the older boy moved to the kitchen. He waited for Dean to turn around before speaking. “Thanks again,” he said simply, unable to form the words and language necessary for conveying the extent of his thoughts and feelings. The simple apology would have to be enough, he decided. He gave a crooked smile as he scratched the back of his neck, trying not to think of the two of them holding hands on the way home.