Dean stood in front of Parkinson Manor. Damn, it's even more intimidating than Whittom Park, he thought as he reached the door. Steeling himself, he grasped the door knocker and rapped firmly.
The enormous double doors swung open to reveal one of the tallest house elves Dean had ever seen. The creature inclined it's head and rasped, "Mr. Thomas, if you will follow me?"

My God... it's the house-elves' answer to Hagrid! Dean thought, stifling a chuckle. Hefting the box containing his supplies, he said, "Please, lead the way."

They walked past a pair of curving staircases, down a corridor that could have held Orchard's Gate several times over, and finally ended up at a sitting room that was large, but for this particular house, could be deemed 'cosy', comparatively. Pansy Parkinson sat in one of a pair of wing back chairs in front of a fire, the flames casting a rosy glow on her face.

The elf cleared its throat, and her attention was diverted from the flames, as she stood and moved toward Dean. "Mr. Thomas," she said, with the barest hint of a smile. "I trust you didn't have any trouble finding the house?"

When it can be seen from orbit? I think not. Dean smiled. "Not at all Ms. Parkinson. I hope I'm not late, but my last appointment ran a bit long."

She glanced at the hourglass on the ornately carved mantelpiece and then back at Dean. "No, not at all. Would you care for tea?"

"Please. That would be lovely."

The house elves sprang into action and a silver tea service appeared on the table between the chairs, where she gestured for him to sit. "I regret that we didn't get to chat longer in Hogsmeade. I'm quite a fan of your work."

"Really? I wasn't aware that my work was that widely known." he said.

"I've seen a few pieces." She poured, then cocked her head at him. "Milk? Sugar?" Dean shook his head, so she handed him the cup. "So, Mr. Thomas," she began, mouth tipping a bit at the corner, "I'm not quite sure how this works. I haven't had a portrait done since I was a very small girl. I don't really like to sit still," she explained. "But, now that I'm the sole heir to the house, the estate demands it. It's rather a bother, but there you have it. You come very highly recommended, though. I'm sure the pain of being a statue will be worth it?"
 
"Please, Ms. Parkinson, call me Dean. When I hear 'Mr. Thomas', I start looking for my father. As for being a statue, it shouldn't be that bad," Dean replied with a grin. "I'll need you still just long enough to do the preliminary sketch, but you'll be able to move a bit once that's done." Taking a sip of his tea, he asked, "So, do you have an idea of what you're looking for, Ms. Parkinson? Formal, casual... that sort of thing."

"I hadn't really given it that much thought, " she replied. Her face became contemplative for a few moments, and then her gaze met his. "A formal pose, I should think, for the hall of portraits; that's where all the Parkinson's portraits have been hung for 12 generations. It's where the problem paintings that I mentioned in my owl reside." She paused, tapping her finger on her teacup, and spoke again. "I would also like to have a more informal pose. I can't stand the stuffiness of some of the portraits around here. I shouldn't want generations to come talking about great Aunt Pansy's portrait in the parlor and how she has a stick up-" She stopped abruptly. "You understand, I'm sure," she finished, her eyes twinkling.

"I do indeed," he replied with a laugh. "It's amazing how... curmudgeonly some portraits can get, especially the formal ones. I try to combat that tendency by getting the subject to laugh while I'm working. It's odd, but it seems to work." Dean grinned at her. "Well, unfortunately for you, you'll likely be subjected to my bizarre and wholly inappropriate sense of humor at some point, Ms Parkinson, so I'll apologize in advance."

"If you're going to be inappropriate, Dean," she said with an amused expression, "you may as well call me Pansy." Putting down her teacup, she rested her chin on her hand and studied him. "I'm anticipatory, to say the very least. You'll have to give direction, of course. I don't quite know what to do."

"A first for you, I'm sure," Dean said with a smirk. Looking at her consideringly, he asked. "Do you have a room with good light, done in white or some other light color? Considering your complexion, I think it would make for a nice contrast."

"Mother's summer parlour," she murmured. "One entire wall is windows. If you've finished, I'll take you there?"

At his nod she led him out of the sitting room and down yet another corridor. She looked at him sideways. "We're in for a bit of a walk." After passing gilt framed priceless works of art, intricate tapestries, doors to more rooms than he could count and more than a few suits of armour, they arrived at a closed door. She frowned, took a deep breath and opened it.

The room itself was stunning, if a little musty. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling and there were cloths covering the furniture. Pansy pulled a face. "I'll take care of this, if you'd like to set up?"

"No worries. You needn't bother on my account - it's perfect as is, for our purposes," He said as he began setting up.

She busied herself with flicking her wand at the windows, opening the shutters and allowing the sunlight to spill in. At her softly spoken, "Beren," the tall house elf came in to tidy up and lay a fire in the grate, to knock some of the chill from the room. Pansy hugged herself, rubbing her upper arms. "It's a lovely room in summer. A pity you have to see it in the wintertime."

Dean looked about. "I'm sure," he murmured. Seeing her pensive expression, he decided to lighten the mood. "Beren, eh? Do you suppose the other house elves call him Hagrid behind his back?" he said with a grin.

She smiled. "With his disposition? I doubt that very much. I believe the others are a bit frightened of him, actually. He secretly loves it, though," she confided. "Where do you want me?"

Dean smirked. "There are two answers to that question, so I think I'll go with the one that wouldn't get me hexed. Hmm... how about over there?" he added a bit more seriously, motioning to a low, sleek chair near the center of the room. "Sit facing away from me a bit, and look over your left shoulder."

She complied, but turned to look at him briefly. "I don't especially like to have my back to people." She shot him a grin. "You behave yourself. No sneaking up on me, alright?" She held the pose for about five seconds before she exclaimed, "Ah! I can't stand to sit still. Mother was always horrified at my squirming around as a child. If I'm never completely still, people don't see how fidgety I am."

"Don't worry about it, Ms... Pansy," he said. "As long as you don't move too much, I should be able to get this part done fairly quickly, then you'll be able to move as you like, and we can just talk while I work on the rest. How's that sound?"

She nodded, but said, "Can you at least talk to me while you do that part? I might not go completely mad that way." She glanced at him. "Tell me why you became an artist."

"Because I couldn't not, if you can understand that." He paused for a moment. "When I see something beautiful - a person, a moment, or an emotion - I just have to capture it, or at least try to." Resuming his sketching, he said, "I don't know that I ever quite manage it, not with paint and canvas, but I can't help but try." He shrugged. "Doesn't make much sense, does it?"

"I think it makes perfect sense. And from what I've seen you do a lovely job. I was out at the stables last weekend and saw the portrait you did of Tracey. Lovely." She began to relax a bit, and stared at a point above the mantle. "You're very lucky you have a talent."

Shrugging again, he replied, "Everyone does. It's just a matter of finding it, I suppose." Dean made a few subtle adjustments. "I think we're about done with the preliminaries, so you can move if you like - just keep your face where I can see it, and we should be fine."

"Some talents are more obviously evident than others, I expect," she said, tuning to face him. She gazed at him for a few more moments. "I remember you from school, you know. You've grown up nicely."

"I could say the same," He said with a grin, "and be a lot more emphatic about it. You've turned into quite the beauty, Pansy. Honestly."

"Yes, well, mediwizards work wonders," she returned. "And that's quite the compliment, coming from a man who escorted two pretty girls on Halloween."

"Please," Dean snorted. "all they did was correct an unfortunate tilt in your nose - the rest is all you. I did a series of sketches of you in sixth year where I did the same thing." Seeing the surprised look on her face, he chuckled. "You might remember it - you hexed me for constantly staring at you." He smiled, remembering. "I remember thinking that you had lovely eyes, and was intrigued by the idea that one small feature could shape how we look at someone. As a matter of fact, I think my favorite had the same nose you have now. It's funny how life imitates art, sometimes."

"And the bit with Ali and Angelina was more to irritate McLaggen than anything else. I don't know why, but I just can't seem to be civil around him." He paused for a moment. "Actually, I do know why, but I suppose that it's just my issues raising their ugly head. If nothing else, I have to admit that he has exquisite taste in women," he said with a smile.

She couldn't stop the smile that crept onto her face; she did remember him staring at her during their sixth year. Arithmancy had been difficult enough, and she'd finally gotten fed up and thrown a stinging hex at him.

Her head tilted a bit and she said, "You drew me?"

At his nod, she continued, "I couldn't figure out what you wanted. I figured I'd better hex you before Gregory decided to take matters into his own hands. Believe me, what I did was better."

She watched him concentrate on what he was doing for a moment. He was frowning slightly, and his mouth was set. Completely adorable, she thought.

"So Mr. McLaggen irritates you?" she asked.

"Indeed. I was raised to treat women respectfully, and part of that is having some sort of feeling for the people you sleep with. Of course, I'll admit that I'm not sure how much of it is jealousy at how easily he seems to be able to get women into his bed." Dean shook his head. "The fact that he hit on Angie during a Quidditch match that Ali had invited him to, or the fact that he snogged Angie pretty much in front of Alicia later that evening, didn't help matters much." He examined his sketch for a moment. "Oh, I'm done with the prelim sketch, so feel free to move about a bit."

"Yes," she murmured. "He is rather confident, isn't he?" She moved closer to the fire and warmed her hands. She looked at Dean over her shoulder. "There are times that confidence is attractive, and then..."

Her gaze met his. "There are times that it most definitely, without a shadow of a doubt, is not."

Desperately trying to diffuse Pansy's sudden pensive mood, Dean chuckled. "I wouldn't know, personally. Outside of paints and a canvas, confidence isn't exactly my forté - I'm more of a bumbler, to be honest."

"Oh, I don't know about that," she replied. "After all, here you are in the dragon's lair, and you're not visibly shaking, your knees aren't knocking, teeth aren't chattering. I know the reputation I've got. One of my dearest friend's pet names for me is 'viper'. Coming here can't have been the easiest thing, not knowing if you were going to be tortured while you worked or not." She smirked. "Metaphorically speaking, of course."

"Ahh, but I'm painting said dragon, so I'm in my element," Dean replied with a grin. "And I figured out when I painted Tracey and Hannah that there might be a bit more to you big, bad Slytherins than your reputations might suggest. Actually, I found Tracey to be quite charming if you could see past that icy front she put up." His grin became a bit mischievous. "And I did two portraits of Tracey. Tell her I told you to ask about it - the hexing I'll get will be worth it, just to see her blush."

The smirk on Pansy's face spread into a full blown grin. "Two? Did little Miss Davis do something naughty?" She clapped her hands together and laughed, a low throaty sound, and continued. "All those years of training were not in vain." She looked at Dean, still smiling. "I'll ignore the fact that you just called me a dragon, by the way. I'm feeling benevolent." She moved towards him tentatively. "Can I peek yet?"

"No love, nothing naughty - just a bit less... formal that the portrait over at Glenlivet," he said laughingly. "It was quite lovely, really, so try not to torture her about it too much. And yes, you can peek. I've not got much more than your face done, so don't expect too much at this point."

She moved over to stand behind him, looking over his shoulder at the canvas, and was shocked at what she saw. "Is that what I look like?"

She could tell it was a picture of herself. She recognized her hair, her jawline, the tilt of her head. But the features were somehow softened; she didn't look angry, or hard, or wear the carefully crafted mask that her mother had taught her. Pansy put her hand on Dean's shoulder and leaned in for a closer look. "That's not what the mirrors show."

Dean laid his hand over hers. "Yes, that's you. You might not think so, but I'd be willing to bet that your friends would say that it's spot on," he said, looking up at her with a soft smile on his face. "You're lovely, Pansy. Truly. I think we're our own worst critics, sometimes." Giving her hand a squeeze, he went back to work.

She was more than a little shocked that he'd touched her in such a familiar way. Smiling a bit, she thought, That's interesting. Either he's stupid, very comfortable here, or I'm losing my touch. Recovering, she murmured, "Mmm. Or perhaps I need new mirrors." She stood to his side a bit, watching him work.

His head was bent over the canvas and his hand grasped the brush lightly; his hand was moving deftly over the painting, and every so often he'd glance at her, his expression penetrating, a mix of interest and determination. Nice hands, she thought.

"Do you do anything besides portraits?" she asked. "Still life? Abstract?"

"A little bit of everything, actually," Dean replied. "Landscapes, abstract, still life - I'm passable at them all. I can even do graphic design and commercial signage in a pinch, but I really am best with portraits."

"And you said you'd done one for 'Hannah,' as well? I'm assuming that that was Blaise's Hannah, then? You must've gone to his home to do the portrait? Aren't you brave? Blaise might be the only one of us more vicious than I am," she said, smiling at him.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Joy. So I manage to survive Voldemort, Umbridge, Fudge and even Snape, only to be hexed into oblivion by a former man-whore turned jealous boyfriend?" he grinned. "Can't you just taste the irony? And for the record, she came to my place for her sitting - I don't even know where Zabini lives."

Pansy giggled, then stopped abruptly, surprised with her reaction. Since when do I giggle in front of men I don't know? She shook her head as if to clear it, but unable to stop the small smile that crept on to her face. "I doubt he'll come and hex you. I think he's terribly busy right now. I haven't seen him in weeks and weeks." Resisting the urge to peek at what he was doing, she leaned back on her chair. "Forgive me if this seems like an interview; I say I have an insatiable thirst for information, and Tracey argues that I'm horrifically nosy." She flashed him a smile. "You have a studio, then?"

Dean shook his head. "I'm afraid not. I'm hoping to be able to buy one in a few months, actually... provided work keeps coming in as quickly as has in the past few weeks," he said as he continued painting. "I only moved out of Muggle London about a month ago. I've been staying with Ginny and Luna since then - that's where Hannah had her sitting, by the way - though I'll likely be moving in with Neville Longbottom in the near future. And I'd have to agree with your interpretation over Tracey's." Grinning wickedly, Dean added, "At least until your bank draft clears."

She smirked. "That was a disturbingly un-Gryffindor thing to say. Aren't you all supposed to be a more trusting lot?" Pansy chuckled and moved towards him, unable to stop her curiosity. "Longbottom, eh? I saw him from afar not too long ago. He's grown up nicely, too."

"We may be brave, Pansy, but stupidity isn't a House requirement," he replied with a smirk. "And yeah, Neville has definitely grown up. It's a bit hard to reconcile the pudgy little klutz he was in first year with who he is now. Seriously, who'd have thought back then that he'd end up a renowned healer, with women panting after him wherever he goes?"

She nodded, looking over his shoulder again. "Not me. My jaw hit the ground when I saw him last month." She sat down next to him. "And I'll probably deny having said or done that if asked," she said, smiling. "Almost done?"

"Actually, I believe I am. So," he said, gesturing to the canvas, "What do you think?"

"I think that whatever it is that you're charging, it's probably not enough." She studied the completed portrait, and shook her head. "I'm sure it's a bit narcissistic to say that it's lovely, but it is, isn't it?" she asked.

Dean looked at her, smiling. "Yes. Yes you are."