What Dean remembered most clearly, years later when he thought on those last days just before the second war, were the colours. The summer had been somewhat wet, which led to an autumn bursting with a riot of every shade of yellow, orange and red. The Forbidden Forest could have been on fire, and Dean felt on fire himself, consumed with the need to get it all down in oils. There was a sense all around them of something ending and he wanted to preserve it for whatever, or whomever, came after.
He didn't like to think about why he wanted to capture Seamus every second of the day—sleepy-eyed, hair tumbling over his brow; folding paper cranes in Binns's class; even pouring vast quantities of tomato sauce on his sausages. It was a good thing that Seamus had that particular sort of self-absorption that not only thought nothing of Dean staring at him all the time but rather expected it. Dean finally purchased a wizarding camera in Hogsmeade and carried it around with him whenever they weren't in class; Ron even took to calling him "Creevey."
One Saturday afternoon in October he and Seamus were wandering near the edge of the forest when the light from the setting sun burst through the trees, making Seamus's hair glow orange-gold. "Stop there," Dean said, letting go of Seamus's hand and stepping back to take a picture. Seamus looked down for a moment, then directly into the lens like a lover.
"Seamus?" Dean asked, surprised.
"When they see these photos," Seamus said, "I want them to have no doubt what we are to each other. Now, give me the camera. I want to remember, as well."