FIC: Who Have No Treasure But Hope [1/1]
Aug. 2nd, 2008 08:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
leashy_bebesTitle: Who Have No Treasure But Hope
Pairing: Dean Thomas/Seamus Finnigan
Rating: PG-13 - language + boykissing
Summary: Set at the end of DH. Nice, fairly fluffy, reunion fic.
Notes: The poem Seamus refers to is The Rebel by Pádraig Pearse, a key figure in the Easter uprising in Ireland, later executed by the British. The title is taken from the same poem.
Words: ~5300
It was the owl that did me in, the one that didn’t return.
For the first couple of months after Dean went on the run, we’d exchanged frustratingly vague owls and just started to work out a code when he didn’t reply to my letter. And didn’t reply. And didn’t reply. And worse, the owl didn’t come back. Once before, Dean had shifted deeper into hiding – took up with some other wizards, I think – and the owl I’d sent had returned, letter still safely attached. I’d resent it immediately and suffered agonies until two weeks later when a letter came from my mam, with a scroll from Dean inside. It had been too dangerous for him to contact Hogwarts directly and for a while that was how his letters reached me.
But then, as I say, the owl didn’t return. So either he’d got the letter but something had happened before he could reply, or someone had intercepted the owl before it could reach him. Which still meant that something had happened. To Dean. Something had happened to Dean. I sent an owl a day for three weeks after that, and heard nothing.
I lost it, I suppose. Oh sure, I carried on writing letters to Dean’s mam, telling her not to give up hope, but I didn’t believe a word of it. In my head, he was gone. Killed by some fucking Death Eater as though he was nothing. I dreamed about it every night, dreamed about his body and his blood, and in the mornings I was like a man possessed, spoiling for a fight, just waiting for the right words to set me going.
I found plenty of fights at Hogwarts that year, with Slytherins at first, and then with the so called fucking staff they landed on us. Neville tried, bless him, he really tried to rein me in a bit, tried to tell me to pick my battles, not start them. I couldn’t explain to him, or to anyone, that empty space inside that carved itself deeper and deeper with every nightmare of Dean’s dead, sightless eyes.
It’s pretty fucked up - I’m pretty fucked up - the things those dreams made me realise. I would see him begging for his life, sobbing and pleading before a sickly green flash enveloped him and I would wake angry and scared and sick and thinking that he was the most perfect thing on the planet.
My Dean, my friend, my firstbestonly friend, and he had to go and die, thinking that was all. Well, that was all of course. We were friends, strictly friends, and nothing had ever crossed my mind to the contrary. Never even one of those weird dreams where you wake up with the memory of a warm body against your own fading too quick to be sure who it was. We spent our holidays at each other’s houses, split homework between us, talked about Quidditch and football, covered for one another with teachers. Friends.
And yet…
And yet he finished my sentences, and he knew me and my moods better than my own mam, and he made me feel safe inside my own head, and he meant more to me than any stupid girl ever could.
Maybe there was always something there, I don’t know, but the dreams, brought it into blinding focus.
Hopelessly, desperately, suddenly in love with a dead man, I didn’t know what to do with myself – how to talk, how to think, even eating was difficult. Then I heard the Carrows talking one day, heard her say the word Mudblood, and something snapped in my head. I couldn’t walk for two days when they caught up with me but it was worth it.
In that moment, that brief, endless moment of attacking them, casting the first curses and hexes that came into my head everything went clear and sharp. Yes, Dean was dead, yes, I loved him and would never get to tell him, and yes, it was all their fault. From then on, anything I could do to make their life difficult, I did. It felt futile; I didn’t want to make their lives difficult, I wanted to destroy them, but I didn’t know how.
None of them had a Dean to take away.
I carried on though, stumbling through the so-called lessons, mouthing off, receiving my punishment.
One time, one great time, me and Nev organised a bunch of the younger years to distract the staff while we smuggled two injured Ravenclaws out of the castle, taking the time to send messages that had backed up for weeks since we all stopped trusting the school owls. Nev was wary of getting the kids involved but they all wanted to, and I couldn’t see how they could not be involved, living in that place, that madness. They were fantastic, doing just enough to cause noise and distraction while staying within the rules. That night in the room of requirement, the younger kids had chatted excitedly, full of themselves and their accomplishments and my throat had almost closed, my eyes stinging as I watched them with their friends.
We knew, me and Nev and Ginny and everyone else, that in the grand scheme of things, most of what we did was pretty useless. Ginny kept insisting that Harry would come, Harry would fix it, Harry would know what to do, and I found myself closer and closer to snapping at her every time. I couldn’t have explained why, except that maybe I was jealous of that hope that was more than a futile spark, that actually bordered on belief.
So, that was life, for longer than I like to remember. Days passed in a blur, and weeks dragged on forever. I went too far one day, and they caught me enchanting the Great Hall's ceiling to spell out rebel poetry (And I say to my people's masters: Beware. Beware of the thing that is coming, beware of the risen people Who shall take what ye would not give. Did ye think to conquer the people, or that law is stronger than life, And than men's desire to be free? - it seemed apt). I couldn't get away with just a beating, or just a cruciatas that time, and after Neville blew the door off Alecto's study and dragged me out, bleeding and limping and half blind, we took to hiding out in the room of requirement, doing what we could from there.
The room of requirement…
Pretty apt.
That night, that crazy night when people started pouring in from the Hog’s Head, the room gave me what I needed in the shape of a tall, overly lean black guy looking pretty damn fine for a dead man.
I suppose it was fairly girly, other people have told me so since, but I don’t remember. I know I was sitting on a desk watching people arrive, and I know I ended up barrelling Dean into the wall behind him with the force of my embrace but I don’t remember recognising him, or feeling shocked or elated, or even moving. I just remember the feel of his arms going round me as he pressed his face to my hair, the way he was too thin, the way he shook against me as I pushed my face into his chest, muttering his name.
“Fuck, I thought – ” we both said, but then the night swept on, History happened, and I found myself separated from him again in the aftermath, wondering if I had dreamed it all.
I found him kneeling next to Professor Lupin’s young wife, stroking her hand.
Past caring what Dean or anyone else might think, I stepped up close to him and touched his shoulder. He leaned his weight against my legs for a moment and said,
“I knew her dad. He saved my life.”
I hadn’t a clue what to say so I just shifted my hand until he took hold of it and hauled himself to his feet. I couldn’t bring myself to let go though, and Dean didn’t raise any objections, so I looped my fingers more firmly around his and we trailed off to find something to do.
There was nothing and everything. How could we rebuild the castle? Where would we even start? And yet the Death Eaters were rounded up, the wards intact, the dead already laid out and awaiting their final respects. In the end, a thought stirred within me.
“Want to owl your mum?” I asked.
“Not yet,” he said with a shrug. “I don’t want to tell her I’m safe ‘til I am.”
“You are,” I promised him without thinking and he gave me a half-hearted grin.
“Be safe when I’m back home,” he said, and then yawned hugely, rubbing his free hand over his face. “I’m so tired. Can we go to bed please, Shay?”
Trying to ignore the way those words ripped through me, I nodded and we turned away from the Great Hall. On the way up to the dorms I hadn’t slept in for weeks we found Luna. Dean dropped my hand to sweep her up into a tight hug and kiss her forehead. I felt hot and small and stupid until he released her and his hand sought mine out without looking. After extracting a promise from Luna to go and find some people to be with instead of reassuring the portraits, Dean tugged on my hand and we set off again.
“Didn’t know you two were close,” I said curiously.
“Long story,” Dean said. “Not tonight, eh?”
I nodded and Dean offered me a smile, a proper one, a full on Dean Thomas grin, and I was so dazzled by it that I barely noticed the changes to the dorm until we were already inside. There were globes of soft light hanging in the corners of the room, around the window and the door, giving the whole room a comforting, twilight clarity. Harry and Ron’s too-long unused beds had been pushed together and there in the middle of the mattresses were Harry, Ron and Hermione, cuddled up like a litter of puppies. Only Hermione was awake, and she smiled tiredly at us without a scrap of judgement as Dean led me over to his bed and slumped onto the mattress.
"Dean?" I asked, concern prickling at me.
"Fine," he said, grinning up at me. "Just falling asleep on my feet."
"Alright," I said. "Well - " I glanced over my shoulder at my own bed and took half a step backwards before Dean caught on.
"Don't," he said, and I looked at him and he was even more perfect than I remembered, even with scars and a new sadness in his eyes. How could I say no to him? How could I ever?
"Alright," I said again, kicking off my shoes and shrugging out of my mostly-shredded shirt, grimacing as the material tugged on a long, thin cut down my ribcage. "Dean," I said softly.
"Hmm?"
"Take your shoes off," I told him, but he just turned his upper body to one side and pressed his face into the mattress.
For reasons I couldn't understand, my heart was in my throat as I knelt in front of him and tugged off his trainers before I moved his pliant body, lifting his long legs onto the bed. He made another sleepy noise and I squeezed into bed on the other side of him, trying desperately not to touch him.
"Can't believe you're here," Dean mumbled, his hand coming back to pat my side lazily.
"I was so sure you were dead," I said, my voice shaking. I hadn't meant to say that, hadn't wanted to scare him, but the touch of his hand and his rough, sleepy voice had undone me.
"Oh, thanks," Dean said around a huff, and for an awful moment, I thought he would be angry at me for giving up on him. My heart sank, because what could I possibly say to explain that? How could I ever justify it?
"I - " I started, and then shut my mouth.
"Seamus," he said, turning onto his back to look at me, his arm hot against my side. "I was joking, mate."
"Oh."
"I thought I was too," he said and added, "Dead, I mean," at my confused look. He shivered against me and turned onto his side, looking me in the eye. "I - " he started, then shut his lips tightly. Dean has never been as physically demonstrative as me, so it came as a shock when he curled his lanky frame around my own body, pressing his forehead to my shoulder.
"Dean, what - " I began, but he shook his head.
"Not now," he muttered. "Not in the dark."
I held back from pointing out that it wasn't really dark because I knew exactly what he meant.
"Okay," I said, giving into temptation and instinct by wrapping my arms around him. "Okay."
He relaxed against me, and I think that was the first time I realised how tense he had been. Almost immediately, his breathing went deep and slow, his eyes flickering under their lids. Unable to stop myself, I leaned in and pressed a kiss to his hair. He murmured and I almost jumped a mile, resolving to keep my hands and mouth to myself from then on. It was then that he shifted again, trapping one of my hands underneath his body. I remember thinking fuck, and move, damn it and God, thank you for being alive.
I never thought I would sleep that night, too used to surviving on snatched minutes here and there, too preoccupied with the miracle of Dean's presence, but I obviously did because I was woken by an abrupt shout from outside our bed curtains. Everything was still too raw and me and Dean both flung ourselves out of bed, wands at the ready, only to see Hermione and Ron shaking Harry awake, shushing him out of a nightmare.
"Everything alright?" Dean asked, in a deliciously raspy voice.
"Muh - fine...m'fine," Harry mumbled brushing Ron's hands away. "I forgot," he said, blinking a few times. I knew I shouldn't have but I couldn't help myself and snorted with laugher. Dean whacked me on the shoulder, but Ron laughed a lot louder before shooting an apologetic glance at Harry.
"Sorry, mate. But it was pretty funny."
"Suppose," Harry said around a yawn. "Um. What do we do now?"
"Party?" I offered, earning myself another, softer slap from Dean.
"Avoid the press?" Ron grinned, poking Harry in the ribs.
"Start catching up on the school work we missed?" Harry asked, passing the poke and the teasing look on to Hermione.
"Oh, ha ha," Hermione simpered at them for a moment before sobering. "There'll lots of arrangements to make."
"Yeah," Dean said, and I looked at him in time to see a frown that he chased away quickly, giving me a reassuring smile.
"Shouldn't you go and fetch your parents?" Ron asked, looking to Hermione, but she just shrugged.
"A couple more weeks won't hurt..."
I turned to Dean and cocked my head toward the bathroom. He nodded in agreement; this wasn't our place.
In the bathroom, we stood at the sink side by side as we brushed our teeth, and I found I couldn't meet his eyes or my own in the mirror. As I rinsed out my mouth, he tucked his fingers under my jaw and tilted my head up to look in my eyes.
"What?" he demanded softly.
"Nothing," I said with a shrug, my gaze flickering over his face. "Just. Don't know how to be now."
"Yeah," he agreed.
The closeness was too much, too loaded, and I shifted quickly, leaving him with his hand hanging in mid air while I shoved my head under the cold tap, hoping to damp down the flush in my cheeks.
It set the pattern for the day that followed, really. He would touch me in all the tiny ways I had touched him that first night, little reassuring touches to make sure I was still there, still by his side, still looking after him, and my traitorous mind would lead me away into fantasies of him touching me seeking something other than comfort. We spent that day at Hogwarts, along with half the wizarding world, its' mother and her pet dog. Dean told me about Ted Tonks and all he had done for him and the words brought a hard lump into my throat even though I knew that couldn't be half of what Dean had endured. I wanted to know everything, no matter how much it might scare me, but I decided to leave him to tell it in his own time.
And I wanted to make it better. I wanted to move mountains and whole fucking worlds to make him feel even just a tiny bit better about what he had gone through. Of course, I'd always looked out for him, the way best mates look out for each other, but it must have been this new thing, this desperate desire for him that made it so hard to see him hurt and quiet and lost.
We hadn't known what to do to help, so we'd wandered down to the great hall to find the Professors - real ones this time, not Death Eater fakes, and it was so good to hear McGonnagal's strident tones ringing out in command again - issuing directions and organising people into groups depending on their levels of magical ability. Me and Dean found ourselves working alongside Terry and Luna to clear the rubble from some of the upstairs corridors. There was residual magic on some of the larger pieces so we had to move them the muggle way, heaving them off to one side for the professors to deal with later. The smaller bits we gathered into piles that we could meld and levitate with a few simple spells.
It was interesting, watching Dean with Luna. I knew they'd arrived together the night before, but I'd assumed that had just been a coincidence until we'd seen her on the stairs. Again, Dean had greeted her with a warm hug which she had returned in her usual vague fashion. Once, Terry had tried to stop Luna involving herself in the heavy lifting and Dean had rounded on him at once.
"She's completely capable, probably more so than you. You've no idea what you're talking about."
I filed it away for future reference and let the work take me over mind and body until Neville, Hannah and a grey-faced Bill Weasley came and told us to go and find something to eat. Luna placed a kiss on Dean's sweaty cheek before drifting off, and we walked together to the Great Hall. Dean bumped his shoulder against mine a few times, let the backs of our hands graze as we walked, generally made me sharply aware of his presence.
"I'm thinking," he said around a mouthful of sandwich, "I need to go and see my mum tomorrow."
I nodded. "I should probably send me mam an owl."
"Owl?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Ah - " I said with a wave of my hand. "Things aren't so good."
"Shay," he said sadly, shaking his head. "Make it up with her. Please?"
"Ah - "
"I'll come with you," he offered, as though it was the most natural thing in the world.
"Really?"
"Only fair," he shrugged.
"Huh?"
"Well, you're coming with me aren't you?" he asked, like I was being stupid.
"Oh - if you want."
"Of course I want," he said, rolling his eyes. "Evidently can't let you out of my sight for ten minutes."
I laughed, but only so he wouldn't see how deeply his words had affected me. Not just that he wanted me there when he went back to his family, but that he would offer so casually to come with me to see mine. One Finnigan Family Event is usually enough to put people off for life - not that we're particularly obnoxious, we're just loud and many - and voluntarily putting yourself in the firing line for an emotional reunion-cum-blame-fest was the mark of genuine friendship as far as I was concerned.
"Coffee?" he asked, apparently completely unaware of my racing mind.
"Sure," I nodded, and he poured me a cup, nudging it down the table to me, along with the bowl of sugar. He adds more milk than anyone I've ever seen, and it's genuinely embarrassing that as vile as it tastes, I took to drinking it that way in his absence. Now he was back I just added two sugars as usual and sat back in my chair, looking at him over my cup.
"Doesn't seem real, does it?" he asked, leaning over to cover my free hand with one of his own.
"I - " I swallowed and glanced down at our hands, taking a swig of my coffee. "No. I'm - " I couldn't resist turning my hand upwards under his and curling my fingers around his wrist. "I'm really glad to see you."
"You too," he grinned, tapping his fingers against the inside of my forearm and making me shiver.
"Are you and Luna - " I started, not really sure I wanted to finish the question, let alone hear the answer. Dean's face clouded for a moment with confusion and I raised my eyebrows pointedly.
"Oh!" he laughed. "No, nothing like that. We - " his face sobered and he finished lamely, "We met in some pretty fucked up circumstances and she - she was great, Shay. Really amazing, but she'd been in this place for ages and she was - " he looked away and although I wanted to know, desperately wanted to know, I could tell that he was struggling.
"I get it," I said. "Some things just connect people."
"Right," he nodded gratefully, draining his coffee cup and standing, pulling me to my feet with him. "Come on, let's go and make ourselves useful."
A few hours later found us trailing all over the halls of the castle scouring the place for portraits that had been lost or damaged in the battle. Dean was particularly keen on our task and talked enthusiastically about possible ways of repairing the damage we found. He had climbed onto a ledge to better examine a portrait of a twelfth century witch that had been hit by some kind of curse. As he leaned out and stroked his fingers over the damaged canvas I suddenly wondered what the hell I was doing wasting time.
I was crazy about him, and I'd already lost him once, grieved for him once, berated myself for not telling him sooner what he meant to me, so why the hell was I messing around with portraits when I could be taking the plunge? I bit my tongue until he jumped down from the ledge, steadying himself with a hand on my shoulder.
"C'mon," he said, already turning away to the next picture, but I caught hold of his hand and reeled him back to me.
"Dean - "
"What's wrong?" he asked with a frown.
"I - " I swallowed and looked away for a moment to steady myself before meeting his eyes again. "While you were away I realised some things about - um - me. And you. Me and you. Or. Me in relation to you or - "
"Seamus?" he grinned. "What the hell are you banging on about, mate?"
I couldn't even put my feelings for him into words to myself, let alone to him, so I did the only thing I could think of, lunging forward ungracefully and kissing him on the mouth. His hands clenched on my forearms, and I remember thinking that even if he pushed me away, I would remember the feel of his fingers, the press of his chest, and his warm lips and rough stubble against my own for as long as I lived.
"Seamus," he said again, his voice tiny this time, his lips moving against mine.
"I - "
"Shay, what - "
"I'm sorry," I said, pulling out of his grip and stepping away, covering my face with one hand. "Fuck. Fuck, I'm sorry, I - "
His strong hands pulled my arm down and he looked at me seriously.
"Seamus, are you saying that you - fancy me?"
"I - more than that, I think," I said, looking over his shoulder.
"More?" he asked, sounding puzzled.
It didn't seem fair, that for someone usually so perceptive, he could be so utterly dense about this.
"You're already my best friend, Dean. I mean - I - "
"This - this just doesn't happen where I'm from," he said, his eyes skittering all over my face.
"It's not exactly rife in fuckin' Derry, Dean-o. I'm not - Look, I shouldn't have kissed you, that was wrong of me. But it's been driving me crazy for months now and I just wanted you to know, okay. So you can - you can tell me to fuck off or you can hit me or if you're feeling really generous we could just pretend this never - "
"Shut up, Shay," he said with a soft grin, lifting one hand to cup my cheek. I blinked twice and he lowered his head to kiss me, properly fuckin' went for it as well. I raised my hands to his shirt and twined my fingers into the material, determined that he wouldn't move an inch from me. The taste of him was overwhelming, the feel of his lips, his tongue, one large hand moving in gentle circles across my lower back. I made a breathless little noise into his mouth and he squeezed me harder, murmuring appreciatively before pulling back. "I've missed you very much," he said, one corner of his mouth quirking upwards.
"Ha!" The laugh burst out of me, sudden and undignified. "No shit."
I hooked one hand around the back of his neck and hauled myself up on tiptoes to kiss him again. His mouth opened willingly for me and I tasted coffee and Dean and it was fucking delicious. No more girls, I realised then. Not ever. No more anyone but Dean if I could manage it. He bit my lower lip and moved back, nudging my shoulder so I rocked back on my heels.
“Come on,” he grinned. “Work to do.”
For the next half an hour we marked the walls under damaged portraits, and Dean wittered on about ways of fixing them, and I wondered if that whole episode had been a particularly vivid fantasy. Then, as we rounded a corner he looked at me and smiled, a small, private smile and I knew then that it was no fantasy. Without thinking I reached out and squeezed his hand briefly. A wicked look came over his face and he pulled me to him, placing his hands on my waist.
I raised my eyebrows and started to ask what was going on, but he kissed my mouth as it opened and tugged me against him. I never imagined that just the feel of his chest against my own would be so irresistible. He'd lost weight for sure, but his chest was still broad and firm, and his kiss left me breathless. I felt like it shouldn't have meant as much to me as it did, because after all, even though his hands were burning hot trails just under my shirt, it was just a kiss. It meant a hell of a lot though, more than I really understood then, maybe because it was so casual, the way he pulled me to him and kissed me as though it was something he'd been doing forever - or even better, something he intended to keep doing for a long time.
I couldn't help smiling at that thought, and it meant I was unable to kiss Dean properly, causing him to pull back with a little frown.
"You're a horny devil," I told him with a grin, not wanting to tell him that he'd practically melted by brain with the casual heat of his kiss.
Although his voice was quiet and hot when he said, "You're right," the kiss he gave me was bubbling over with laughter and I grinned into it so much that I was unable to kiss him properly and he gave me a gentle clip around the ear.
"You're such an idiot," he muttered. "Don't know why I let you talk me into this."
"I could talk you into anything," I promised, leering at him.
"Oh yeah?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "Kissed the Blarney Stone have you?"
"No," I snorted, stroking my hand down his arm. "Only stupid tourists kiss the Blarney Stone."
"Oh..."
"I pissed on it."
"You did not!" he protested.
"I fuckin' did! Me and me cousins."
"Oh god," he said suddenly, resting his forehead on my shoulder while he shook with laughter. I nudged his head up and between kisses he said, "This is brilliant."
"Shut up, Dean, you talk too much," I said happily.
"You're a fine one to - mmph - "
I shut him up very effectively with another kiss and his fingers curled around my rib cage, just short of tickling. We passed a few very pleasurable moments kissing until he squeezed my upper arm gently and stepped back.
"Hey!" I protested.
"We do have a job to do," he said with a cheeky grin.
"You're impossible," I said, shaking my head.
"You love it," he said, cuffing me round the back of the head and dragging me off to inspect his arse while he inspected portraits. Not a bad way to spend an afternoon.
We shared a bed again that night, and there was no one else in the tower so we threw the curtains around his bed open wide and conjured our best approximation of Hermione's balls of light from the night before. They were a bit more yellow, and bobbed a bit more but the effect was still pretty comforting.
Although I have to say, not as comforting as Dean's kisses. There's something very different about kissing someone while you're lying down. It was softer, slower, easier somehow, and his hand found mine, and he twined our fingers together and clutched them to his chest, kissing me more sweetly than any girl ever had.
I felt his thumb trace over my eyebrow, down my cheek, along my jaw, until his palm slid down the side of my neck. That was enough for me, and I flung my arms around him almost desperately, pressing my face close to his skin, inhaling the smell of him.
He ended the kiss but seemed as strongly drawn back as I was, only this time he planted fiery little kisses along the path his thumb had mapped earlier, leaving me to give a sleepy murmur of approval and lean into his touch.
"Tired?" he asked against my neck.
"Mmm," I mumbled, and I felt his silent laughter through my whole body.
"Me too," he said, and even though I could tell by his eyes that he was still full of adrenaline and unlikely to sleep, he kissed my forehead once before loosening his grip on me, allowing me to shift about a little until I was comfortable. I ended up with my back pressed against Dean's chest, one of his arms loose around my waist and the last thing I remembered thinking as I drifted off was, that's better.
Pairing: Dean Thomas/Seamus Finnigan
Rating: PG-13 - language + boykissing
Summary: Set at the end of DH. Nice, fairly fluffy, reunion fic.
Notes: The poem Seamus refers to is The Rebel by Pádraig Pearse, a key figure in the Easter uprising in Ireland, later executed by the British. The title is taken from the same poem.
Words: ~5300
It was the owl that did me in, the one that didn’t return.
For the first couple of months after Dean went on the run, we’d exchanged frustratingly vague owls and just started to work out a code when he didn’t reply to my letter. And didn’t reply. And didn’t reply. And worse, the owl didn’t come back. Once before, Dean had shifted deeper into hiding – took up with some other wizards, I think – and the owl I’d sent had returned, letter still safely attached. I’d resent it immediately and suffered agonies until two weeks later when a letter came from my mam, with a scroll from Dean inside. It had been too dangerous for him to contact Hogwarts directly and for a while that was how his letters reached me.
But then, as I say, the owl didn’t return. So either he’d got the letter but something had happened before he could reply, or someone had intercepted the owl before it could reach him. Which still meant that something had happened. To Dean. Something had happened to Dean. I sent an owl a day for three weeks after that, and heard nothing.
I lost it, I suppose. Oh sure, I carried on writing letters to Dean’s mam, telling her not to give up hope, but I didn’t believe a word of it. In my head, he was gone. Killed by some fucking Death Eater as though he was nothing. I dreamed about it every night, dreamed about his body and his blood, and in the mornings I was like a man possessed, spoiling for a fight, just waiting for the right words to set me going.
I found plenty of fights at Hogwarts that year, with Slytherins at first, and then with the so called fucking staff they landed on us. Neville tried, bless him, he really tried to rein me in a bit, tried to tell me to pick my battles, not start them. I couldn’t explain to him, or to anyone, that empty space inside that carved itself deeper and deeper with every nightmare of Dean’s dead, sightless eyes.
It’s pretty fucked up - I’m pretty fucked up - the things those dreams made me realise. I would see him begging for his life, sobbing and pleading before a sickly green flash enveloped him and I would wake angry and scared and sick and thinking that he was the most perfect thing on the planet.
My Dean, my friend, my firstbestonly friend, and he had to go and die, thinking that was all. Well, that was all of course. We were friends, strictly friends, and nothing had ever crossed my mind to the contrary. Never even one of those weird dreams where you wake up with the memory of a warm body against your own fading too quick to be sure who it was. We spent our holidays at each other’s houses, split homework between us, talked about Quidditch and football, covered for one another with teachers. Friends.
And yet…
And yet he finished my sentences, and he knew me and my moods better than my own mam, and he made me feel safe inside my own head, and he meant more to me than any stupid girl ever could.
Maybe there was always something there, I don’t know, but the dreams, brought it into blinding focus.
Hopelessly, desperately, suddenly in love with a dead man, I didn’t know what to do with myself – how to talk, how to think, even eating was difficult. Then I heard the Carrows talking one day, heard her say the word Mudblood, and something snapped in my head. I couldn’t walk for two days when they caught up with me but it was worth it.
In that moment, that brief, endless moment of attacking them, casting the first curses and hexes that came into my head everything went clear and sharp. Yes, Dean was dead, yes, I loved him and would never get to tell him, and yes, it was all their fault. From then on, anything I could do to make their life difficult, I did. It felt futile; I didn’t want to make their lives difficult, I wanted to destroy them, but I didn’t know how.
None of them had a Dean to take away.
I carried on though, stumbling through the so-called lessons, mouthing off, receiving my punishment.
One time, one great time, me and Nev organised a bunch of the younger years to distract the staff while we smuggled two injured Ravenclaws out of the castle, taking the time to send messages that had backed up for weeks since we all stopped trusting the school owls. Nev was wary of getting the kids involved but they all wanted to, and I couldn’t see how they could not be involved, living in that place, that madness. They were fantastic, doing just enough to cause noise and distraction while staying within the rules. That night in the room of requirement, the younger kids had chatted excitedly, full of themselves and their accomplishments and my throat had almost closed, my eyes stinging as I watched them with their friends.
We knew, me and Nev and Ginny and everyone else, that in the grand scheme of things, most of what we did was pretty useless. Ginny kept insisting that Harry would come, Harry would fix it, Harry would know what to do, and I found myself closer and closer to snapping at her every time. I couldn’t have explained why, except that maybe I was jealous of that hope that was more than a futile spark, that actually bordered on belief.
So, that was life, for longer than I like to remember. Days passed in a blur, and weeks dragged on forever. I went too far one day, and they caught me enchanting the Great Hall's ceiling to spell out rebel poetry (And I say to my people's masters: Beware. Beware of the thing that is coming, beware of the risen people Who shall take what ye would not give. Did ye think to conquer the people, or that law is stronger than life, And than men's desire to be free? - it seemed apt). I couldn't get away with just a beating, or just a cruciatas that time, and after Neville blew the door off Alecto's study and dragged me out, bleeding and limping and half blind, we took to hiding out in the room of requirement, doing what we could from there.
The room of requirement…
Pretty apt.
That night, that crazy night when people started pouring in from the Hog’s Head, the room gave me what I needed in the shape of a tall, overly lean black guy looking pretty damn fine for a dead man.
I suppose it was fairly girly, other people have told me so since, but I don’t remember. I know I was sitting on a desk watching people arrive, and I know I ended up barrelling Dean into the wall behind him with the force of my embrace but I don’t remember recognising him, or feeling shocked or elated, or even moving. I just remember the feel of his arms going round me as he pressed his face to my hair, the way he was too thin, the way he shook against me as I pushed my face into his chest, muttering his name.
“Fuck, I thought – ” we both said, but then the night swept on, History happened, and I found myself separated from him again in the aftermath, wondering if I had dreamed it all.
I found him kneeling next to Professor Lupin’s young wife, stroking her hand.
Past caring what Dean or anyone else might think, I stepped up close to him and touched his shoulder. He leaned his weight against my legs for a moment and said,
“I knew her dad. He saved my life.”
I hadn’t a clue what to say so I just shifted my hand until he took hold of it and hauled himself to his feet. I couldn’t bring myself to let go though, and Dean didn’t raise any objections, so I looped my fingers more firmly around his and we trailed off to find something to do.
There was nothing and everything. How could we rebuild the castle? Where would we even start? And yet the Death Eaters were rounded up, the wards intact, the dead already laid out and awaiting their final respects. In the end, a thought stirred within me.
“Want to owl your mum?” I asked.
“Not yet,” he said with a shrug. “I don’t want to tell her I’m safe ‘til I am.”
“You are,” I promised him without thinking and he gave me a half-hearted grin.
“Be safe when I’m back home,” he said, and then yawned hugely, rubbing his free hand over his face. “I’m so tired. Can we go to bed please, Shay?”
Trying to ignore the way those words ripped through me, I nodded and we turned away from the Great Hall. On the way up to the dorms I hadn’t slept in for weeks we found Luna. Dean dropped my hand to sweep her up into a tight hug and kiss her forehead. I felt hot and small and stupid until he released her and his hand sought mine out without looking. After extracting a promise from Luna to go and find some people to be with instead of reassuring the portraits, Dean tugged on my hand and we set off again.
“Didn’t know you two were close,” I said curiously.
“Long story,” Dean said. “Not tonight, eh?”
I nodded and Dean offered me a smile, a proper one, a full on Dean Thomas grin, and I was so dazzled by it that I barely noticed the changes to the dorm until we were already inside. There were globes of soft light hanging in the corners of the room, around the window and the door, giving the whole room a comforting, twilight clarity. Harry and Ron’s too-long unused beds had been pushed together and there in the middle of the mattresses were Harry, Ron and Hermione, cuddled up like a litter of puppies. Only Hermione was awake, and she smiled tiredly at us without a scrap of judgement as Dean led me over to his bed and slumped onto the mattress.
"Dean?" I asked, concern prickling at me.
"Fine," he said, grinning up at me. "Just falling asleep on my feet."
"Alright," I said. "Well - " I glanced over my shoulder at my own bed and took half a step backwards before Dean caught on.
"Don't," he said, and I looked at him and he was even more perfect than I remembered, even with scars and a new sadness in his eyes. How could I say no to him? How could I ever?
"Alright," I said again, kicking off my shoes and shrugging out of my mostly-shredded shirt, grimacing as the material tugged on a long, thin cut down my ribcage. "Dean," I said softly.
"Hmm?"
"Take your shoes off," I told him, but he just turned his upper body to one side and pressed his face into the mattress.
For reasons I couldn't understand, my heart was in my throat as I knelt in front of him and tugged off his trainers before I moved his pliant body, lifting his long legs onto the bed. He made another sleepy noise and I squeezed into bed on the other side of him, trying desperately not to touch him.
"Can't believe you're here," Dean mumbled, his hand coming back to pat my side lazily.
"I was so sure you were dead," I said, my voice shaking. I hadn't meant to say that, hadn't wanted to scare him, but the touch of his hand and his rough, sleepy voice had undone me.
"Oh, thanks," Dean said around a huff, and for an awful moment, I thought he would be angry at me for giving up on him. My heart sank, because what could I possibly say to explain that? How could I ever justify it?
"I - " I started, and then shut my mouth.
"Seamus," he said, turning onto his back to look at me, his arm hot against my side. "I was joking, mate."
"Oh."
"I thought I was too," he said and added, "Dead, I mean," at my confused look. He shivered against me and turned onto his side, looking me in the eye. "I - " he started, then shut his lips tightly. Dean has never been as physically demonstrative as me, so it came as a shock when he curled his lanky frame around my own body, pressing his forehead to my shoulder.
"Dean, what - " I began, but he shook his head.
"Not now," he muttered. "Not in the dark."
I held back from pointing out that it wasn't really dark because I knew exactly what he meant.
"Okay," I said, giving into temptation and instinct by wrapping my arms around him. "Okay."
He relaxed against me, and I think that was the first time I realised how tense he had been. Almost immediately, his breathing went deep and slow, his eyes flickering under their lids. Unable to stop myself, I leaned in and pressed a kiss to his hair. He murmured and I almost jumped a mile, resolving to keep my hands and mouth to myself from then on. It was then that he shifted again, trapping one of my hands underneath his body. I remember thinking fuck, and move, damn it and God, thank you for being alive.
I never thought I would sleep that night, too used to surviving on snatched minutes here and there, too preoccupied with the miracle of Dean's presence, but I obviously did because I was woken by an abrupt shout from outside our bed curtains. Everything was still too raw and me and Dean both flung ourselves out of bed, wands at the ready, only to see Hermione and Ron shaking Harry awake, shushing him out of a nightmare.
"Everything alright?" Dean asked, in a deliciously raspy voice.
"Muh - fine...m'fine," Harry mumbled brushing Ron's hands away. "I forgot," he said, blinking a few times. I knew I shouldn't have but I couldn't help myself and snorted with laugher. Dean whacked me on the shoulder, but Ron laughed a lot louder before shooting an apologetic glance at Harry.
"Sorry, mate. But it was pretty funny."
"Suppose," Harry said around a yawn. "Um. What do we do now?"
"Party?" I offered, earning myself another, softer slap from Dean.
"Avoid the press?" Ron grinned, poking Harry in the ribs.
"Start catching up on the school work we missed?" Harry asked, passing the poke and the teasing look on to Hermione.
"Oh, ha ha," Hermione simpered at them for a moment before sobering. "There'll lots of arrangements to make."
"Yeah," Dean said, and I looked at him in time to see a frown that he chased away quickly, giving me a reassuring smile.
"Shouldn't you go and fetch your parents?" Ron asked, looking to Hermione, but she just shrugged.
"A couple more weeks won't hurt..."
I turned to Dean and cocked my head toward the bathroom. He nodded in agreement; this wasn't our place.
In the bathroom, we stood at the sink side by side as we brushed our teeth, and I found I couldn't meet his eyes or my own in the mirror. As I rinsed out my mouth, he tucked his fingers under my jaw and tilted my head up to look in my eyes.
"What?" he demanded softly.
"Nothing," I said with a shrug, my gaze flickering over his face. "Just. Don't know how to be now."
"Yeah," he agreed.
The closeness was too much, too loaded, and I shifted quickly, leaving him with his hand hanging in mid air while I shoved my head under the cold tap, hoping to damp down the flush in my cheeks.
It set the pattern for the day that followed, really. He would touch me in all the tiny ways I had touched him that first night, little reassuring touches to make sure I was still there, still by his side, still looking after him, and my traitorous mind would lead me away into fantasies of him touching me seeking something other than comfort. We spent that day at Hogwarts, along with half the wizarding world, its' mother and her pet dog. Dean told me about Ted Tonks and all he had done for him and the words brought a hard lump into my throat even though I knew that couldn't be half of what Dean had endured. I wanted to know everything, no matter how much it might scare me, but I decided to leave him to tell it in his own time.
And I wanted to make it better. I wanted to move mountains and whole fucking worlds to make him feel even just a tiny bit better about what he had gone through. Of course, I'd always looked out for him, the way best mates look out for each other, but it must have been this new thing, this desperate desire for him that made it so hard to see him hurt and quiet and lost.
We hadn't known what to do to help, so we'd wandered down to the great hall to find the Professors - real ones this time, not Death Eater fakes, and it was so good to hear McGonnagal's strident tones ringing out in command again - issuing directions and organising people into groups depending on their levels of magical ability. Me and Dean found ourselves working alongside Terry and Luna to clear the rubble from some of the upstairs corridors. There was residual magic on some of the larger pieces so we had to move them the muggle way, heaving them off to one side for the professors to deal with later. The smaller bits we gathered into piles that we could meld and levitate with a few simple spells.
It was interesting, watching Dean with Luna. I knew they'd arrived together the night before, but I'd assumed that had just been a coincidence until we'd seen her on the stairs. Again, Dean had greeted her with a warm hug which she had returned in her usual vague fashion. Once, Terry had tried to stop Luna involving herself in the heavy lifting and Dean had rounded on him at once.
"She's completely capable, probably more so than you. You've no idea what you're talking about."
I filed it away for future reference and let the work take me over mind and body until Neville, Hannah and a grey-faced Bill Weasley came and told us to go and find something to eat. Luna placed a kiss on Dean's sweaty cheek before drifting off, and we walked together to the Great Hall. Dean bumped his shoulder against mine a few times, let the backs of our hands graze as we walked, generally made me sharply aware of his presence.
"I'm thinking," he said around a mouthful of sandwich, "I need to go and see my mum tomorrow."
I nodded. "I should probably send me mam an owl."
"Owl?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Ah - " I said with a wave of my hand. "Things aren't so good."
"Shay," he said sadly, shaking his head. "Make it up with her. Please?"
"Ah - "
"I'll come with you," he offered, as though it was the most natural thing in the world.
"Really?"
"Only fair," he shrugged.
"Huh?"
"Well, you're coming with me aren't you?" he asked, like I was being stupid.
"Oh - if you want."
"Of course I want," he said, rolling his eyes. "Evidently can't let you out of my sight for ten minutes."
I laughed, but only so he wouldn't see how deeply his words had affected me. Not just that he wanted me there when he went back to his family, but that he would offer so casually to come with me to see mine. One Finnigan Family Event is usually enough to put people off for life - not that we're particularly obnoxious, we're just loud and many - and voluntarily putting yourself in the firing line for an emotional reunion-cum-blame-fest was the mark of genuine friendship as far as I was concerned.
"Coffee?" he asked, apparently completely unaware of my racing mind.
"Sure," I nodded, and he poured me a cup, nudging it down the table to me, along with the bowl of sugar. He adds more milk than anyone I've ever seen, and it's genuinely embarrassing that as vile as it tastes, I took to drinking it that way in his absence. Now he was back I just added two sugars as usual and sat back in my chair, looking at him over my cup.
"Doesn't seem real, does it?" he asked, leaning over to cover my free hand with one of his own.
"I - " I swallowed and glanced down at our hands, taking a swig of my coffee. "No. I'm - " I couldn't resist turning my hand upwards under his and curling my fingers around his wrist. "I'm really glad to see you."
"You too," he grinned, tapping his fingers against the inside of my forearm and making me shiver.
"Are you and Luna - " I started, not really sure I wanted to finish the question, let alone hear the answer. Dean's face clouded for a moment with confusion and I raised my eyebrows pointedly.
"Oh!" he laughed. "No, nothing like that. We - " his face sobered and he finished lamely, "We met in some pretty fucked up circumstances and she - she was great, Shay. Really amazing, but she'd been in this place for ages and she was - " he looked away and although I wanted to know, desperately wanted to know, I could tell that he was struggling.
"I get it," I said. "Some things just connect people."
"Right," he nodded gratefully, draining his coffee cup and standing, pulling me to my feet with him. "Come on, let's go and make ourselves useful."
A few hours later found us trailing all over the halls of the castle scouring the place for portraits that had been lost or damaged in the battle. Dean was particularly keen on our task and talked enthusiastically about possible ways of repairing the damage we found. He had climbed onto a ledge to better examine a portrait of a twelfth century witch that had been hit by some kind of curse. As he leaned out and stroked his fingers over the damaged canvas I suddenly wondered what the hell I was doing wasting time.
I was crazy about him, and I'd already lost him once, grieved for him once, berated myself for not telling him sooner what he meant to me, so why the hell was I messing around with portraits when I could be taking the plunge? I bit my tongue until he jumped down from the ledge, steadying himself with a hand on my shoulder.
"C'mon," he said, already turning away to the next picture, but I caught hold of his hand and reeled him back to me.
"Dean - "
"What's wrong?" he asked with a frown.
"I - " I swallowed and looked away for a moment to steady myself before meeting his eyes again. "While you were away I realised some things about - um - me. And you. Me and you. Or. Me in relation to you or - "
"Seamus?" he grinned. "What the hell are you banging on about, mate?"
I couldn't even put my feelings for him into words to myself, let alone to him, so I did the only thing I could think of, lunging forward ungracefully and kissing him on the mouth. His hands clenched on my forearms, and I remember thinking that even if he pushed me away, I would remember the feel of his fingers, the press of his chest, and his warm lips and rough stubble against my own for as long as I lived.
"Seamus," he said again, his voice tiny this time, his lips moving against mine.
"I - "
"Shay, what - "
"I'm sorry," I said, pulling out of his grip and stepping away, covering my face with one hand. "Fuck. Fuck, I'm sorry, I - "
His strong hands pulled my arm down and he looked at me seriously.
"Seamus, are you saying that you - fancy me?"
"I - more than that, I think," I said, looking over his shoulder.
"More?" he asked, sounding puzzled.
It didn't seem fair, that for someone usually so perceptive, he could be so utterly dense about this.
"You're already my best friend, Dean. I mean - I - "
"This - this just doesn't happen where I'm from," he said, his eyes skittering all over my face.
"It's not exactly rife in fuckin' Derry, Dean-o. I'm not - Look, I shouldn't have kissed you, that was wrong of me. But it's been driving me crazy for months now and I just wanted you to know, okay. So you can - you can tell me to fuck off or you can hit me or if you're feeling really generous we could just pretend this never - "
"Shut up, Shay," he said with a soft grin, lifting one hand to cup my cheek. I blinked twice and he lowered his head to kiss me, properly fuckin' went for it as well. I raised my hands to his shirt and twined my fingers into the material, determined that he wouldn't move an inch from me. The taste of him was overwhelming, the feel of his lips, his tongue, one large hand moving in gentle circles across my lower back. I made a breathless little noise into his mouth and he squeezed me harder, murmuring appreciatively before pulling back. "I've missed you very much," he said, one corner of his mouth quirking upwards.
"Ha!" The laugh burst out of me, sudden and undignified. "No shit."
I hooked one hand around the back of his neck and hauled myself up on tiptoes to kiss him again. His mouth opened willingly for me and I tasted coffee and Dean and it was fucking delicious. No more girls, I realised then. Not ever. No more anyone but Dean if I could manage it. He bit my lower lip and moved back, nudging my shoulder so I rocked back on my heels.
“Come on,” he grinned. “Work to do.”
For the next half an hour we marked the walls under damaged portraits, and Dean wittered on about ways of fixing them, and I wondered if that whole episode had been a particularly vivid fantasy. Then, as we rounded a corner he looked at me and smiled, a small, private smile and I knew then that it was no fantasy. Without thinking I reached out and squeezed his hand briefly. A wicked look came over his face and he pulled me to him, placing his hands on my waist.
I raised my eyebrows and started to ask what was going on, but he kissed my mouth as it opened and tugged me against him. I never imagined that just the feel of his chest against my own would be so irresistible. He'd lost weight for sure, but his chest was still broad and firm, and his kiss left me breathless. I felt like it shouldn't have meant as much to me as it did, because after all, even though his hands were burning hot trails just under my shirt, it was just a kiss. It meant a hell of a lot though, more than I really understood then, maybe because it was so casual, the way he pulled me to him and kissed me as though it was something he'd been doing forever - or even better, something he intended to keep doing for a long time.
I couldn't help smiling at that thought, and it meant I was unable to kiss Dean properly, causing him to pull back with a little frown.
"You're a horny devil," I told him with a grin, not wanting to tell him that he'd practically melted by brain with the casual heat of his kiss.
Although his voice was quiet and hot when he said, "You're right," the kiss he gave me was bubbling over with laughter and I grinned into it so much that I was unable to kiss him properly and he gave me a gentle clip around the ear.
"You're such an idiot," he muttered. "Don't know why I let you talk me into this."
"I could talk you into anything," I promised, leering at him.
"Oh yeah?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "Kissed the Blarney Stone have you?"
"No," I snorted, stroking my hand down his arm. "Only stupid tourists kiss the Blarney Stone."
"Oh..."
"I pissed on it."
"You did not!" he protested.
"I fuckin' did! Me and me cousins."
"Oh god," he said suddenly, resting his forehead on my shoulder while he shook with laughter. I nudged his head up and between kisses he said, "This is brilliant."
"Shut up, Dean, you talk too much," I said happily.
"You're a fine one to - mmph - "
I shut him up very effectively with another kiss and his fingers curled around my rib cage, just short of tickling. We passed a few very pleasurable moments kissing until he squeezed my upper arm gently and stepped back.
"Hey!" I protested.
"We do have a job to do," he said with a cheeky grin.
"You're impossible," I said, shaking my head.
"You love it," he said, cuffing me round the back of the head and dragging me off to inspect his arse while he inspected portraits. Not a bad way to spend an afternoon.
We shared a bed again that night, and there was no one else in the tower so we threw the curtains around his bed open wide and conjured our best approximation of Hermione's balls of light from the night before. They were a bit more yellow, and bobbed a bit more but the effect was still pretty comforting.
Although I have to say, not as comforting as Dean's kisses. There's something very different about kissing someone while you're lying down. It was softer, slower, easier somehow, and his hand found mine, and he twined our fingers together and clutched them to his chest, kissing me more sweetly than any girl ever had.
I felt his thumb trace over my eyebrow, down my cheek, along my jaw, until his palm slid down the side of my neck. That was enough for me, and I flung my arms around him almost desperately, pressing my face close to his skin, inhaling the smell of him.
He ended the kiss but seemed as strongly drawn back as I was, only this time he planted fiery little kisses along the path his thumb had mapped earlier, leaving me to give a sleepy murmur of approval and lean into his touch.
"Tired?" he asked against my neck.
"Mmm," I mumbled, and I felt his silent laughter through my whole body.
"Me too," he said, and even though I could tell by his eyes that he was still full of adrenaline and unlikely to sleep, he kissed my forehead once before loosening his grip on me, allowing me to shift about a little until I was comfortable. I ended up with my back pressed against Dean's chest, one of his arms loose around my waist and the last thing I remembered thinking as I drifted off was, that's better.
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Date: 2008-08-04 11:45 am (UTC)