It was Lavender who had first taken him aside in the Common Room one night a little before the Christmas holidays and, taking her hands in his, adopted a serious expression that was so exceptionally unlike her.

"Seamus," he had started and, recognising her tone, he chose to stare at the weeping gash on her cheek, avoiding her eyes, "Your owl came back today didn't it? Parvati saw it tapping on the window in Muggle Studies."

"Aye." he answered truthfully, because at this point he was beginning to learn that lies only got you into more trouble; it was unlike him, but a few nights in the dungeons, starved and hung upon 500 year-old chains that had cut into his wrists as he struggled and screamed had taught him that sometimes you have to change for the better.

"And?" Lavander pressed, removing one hand from his own and placing it upon the left hand side of his face, drawing his gaze away from her own and into her eyes. She stared at him with unashamed pity.

Reluctantly, Seamus reached into his back pocket, pulling out a folded envelope. Unopened and seemingly untouched, it still bore the scribbled hand of a desperate teenage boy: Dean Thomas, Where-ever he is now."I sent her away a week ago," he began, his voice cracking as he gestured out the window, towards the general direction of the Owlery, "She's never failed at sending a letter before, even without an address."

"Seamus," Lavender said after a moment, and he began increasingly aware of Parvati's eyes upon them, "Maybe ... I know it's hard, it's hard on all of us with Dean not here ... but more people are being killed every day and ... and maybe -"

Before she was able to finish he had broken away from her, turning on his heel and only just making it into the dormitory when the hot tears spilt over, coming in short gasps and sobs muffled by the pillow that lay upon the bed that, for six years, he had slept next to. His own bed had lain empty since September, a few weeks in, when Seamus had finally accepted that Dean would not be coming back. Neville had not mentioned the move; though he had noticed, Seamus knew he had. But that was just what Neville did; he understood perfectly that his friend did not want to talk about it - he had heard the sobs in the middle of the night too, and had once sat at the side of the bed to stroke Seamus's sandy hair and whisper words of encouragment, but he did not mention it in the morning. Seamus appreciated Neville trying - hell, everyone appreciated Neville at the moment - but there were no words that could make him feel better, not now. It was too late. He had lost too much hope.

But, then again, if Dean were here, perhaps he would have the right words.

If Dean were here, Seamus thought, I would not be crying at all.

And Seamus wondered now just when he had given up. Just when he had stopped living and had began to simply go through the motions on a daily basis, accepting the hits that came his way or the words screamed at him, barely enjoying the hours of solitude in the Common Room and excusing himself early just so he could crawl up in Dean's bed and mourn.

Maybe, he thought, it was when the first Muggle-born was found. A woman, a little over twenty, who's lifeless body had been left in her street, her crying child still in his cot and her husband being restrained by Snatchers as he screamed and screamed and tried his best to hold her. She had resisted capture, they said, and let this be a warning. It was the first of many, some not as chilling, but equally publicised murders. Seamus was Irish, had lived in Ireland for the first eleven years of his life and every summer thereafter, and so he was no stranger to hearing the news of murder on a daily basis - it had been worse, he was told by his mother, in the years before he was born, though he was still familiar with it. But he had never imagined it would happen in his world, or that it would be one of the most important people in his life who might just be a victim.

A month or so later, he began to speak of Dean in the past tense, when he spoke of him at all.

The last time Seamus had seen him had been after their Headmaster's funeral, sitting under the shade of a willow tree by the lake. Dean's head was resting upon his shoulder as they looked out through the hanging branches at the few figures who still remained behind and did everything they could not to look at the white tomb, that spelt the end of everything they knew - or thought they did - and paved the way for something more terrifying than adolesence. And it was Seamus could do to grab the hand of his best friend and squeeze as tight as he could. That afternoon he would be taking a Muggle ferry across the Irish sea, and Dean would be returning to London, and after that he didn't know what would happen - if he would ever sit on these grounds with his best friend ever again.

"Shay?"

Seamus gave a grunt in reply, as he finished watching Hermione sob into Ron's shoulder and turned his attention to his old teacher and a pink-haired witch who stood nearest the tomb, watching Harry and Ginny. Couples, he thought, love. It seemed ridiculous now, trivial even. And yet it was all he could think about.

"There's going to be a war now, isn't there?" Dean asked, turning his head to stare up at Seamus.

"It's been a war for while now, Dean. Ye spent half a year trying to convince me of it."

"I never really thought it would affect us, though. We were just teenage boys who got drunk on cheap firewhiskey in the dorms and ogled at girls. I never really thought it might be something that we might not come out of alive."

"Alive! Ah, Feck off!" Seamus drew himself away from Dean in shock, watching but not caring as Dean almost toppled to the ground, his support lost, "Are ye a bloody eejit, Thomas? Aye, war and stuff, that's grand! But neither of us are going to die! I can't believe ye'd even say that, you're supposed to be the fucking optimist, mate!"

He was on his feet now, hands clasped in fists, his voice raised. He saw through the branches a few heads turn in their direction, but they were hidden well enough. Dean scrambled to his feet now, towering above his shorter friend, his features soft.

"There's a difference between optimism and stupidity, Shay."

"Well, no Death Eater is going to get near ye at least, Dean. They'd have to go through me first." there was more than a hint of defiance is his Irish tone as he said it and he found himself almost embarrassed. By saying it, he could almost feel the veil of deceit he had covered himself with for the past year or so begin to slip from him, and he wondered if Dean noticed.

It took Dean a moment to react at all, but when he did he did so with a grin so wide that it felt unfitting for the atmosphere and, for a moment, Seamus could almost feel the glow upon his own skin. By saying what he had just said, he had all but told his friend that he loved him, and Dean knew.

"I know they would, mate." Dean said, his voice almost a whisper, walking towards the shorter boy and taking his hand back in his own, "I know they would."

They were close now, too close, and Seamus knew too well that his too-long hair would be tickling Dean's chin, but he found it hard to care. He'd spent an entire year not caring, or at least, pretending not to. And it seemed strange to him, very strange, that a year in which he'd spent nights on end lying awake over the thought of his best friend and Ron's sister had cumulated in something that was so much bigger than his feelings for Dean. Worrying about his sexuality and yearning for a seemingly straight boy seemed trivial now, up against what they were facing in reality.

Dean pressed his forehead against his, one arm now slung around his neck.

"Daring, nerve and chivalry," Seamus quoted aimlessly, trying to ignore feel of Dean's hot breath on his face, "Traits that define a Gryffindor. Ye know, mate, I always wondered why the Sorting Hat took so long to sort me. At the moment, I don't feel at all daring. I'm a fucking coward mate, and I'm terrified."

"We all are, Shay -"

"I don't mean about the war, Dean." Seamus stopped him, staring him straight in the eyes, "And ye know it."

Dean nodded, and there was a strange mixture of emotions that Seamus could see played out on his face in quick succession. Confusion, sadness, fear. And maybe, though Seamus wondered if it was wishful thinking on his part alone, immense happiness. And really, that tiny glimmer of hope was all he needed.

Pulling Dean down to his level he pressed the lightest of kisses to his friends lips, barely touching, though he could feel the cackle of electricity and knew that what was probably a spark to Dean was a whole fucking firework display to him. The taller boy did not move away and Seamus took it as a sign of encouragment that he had not yet been punched in the face.

He pulled back after a moment or so, surveying Dean with worried eyes. He did not speak, but only stood there in the diming light, his mouth slightly open and his eyes wide, fixed upon the Irish boy in front of him.

"Well," he began after a moment, sounding almost breathless, "Well, I'd say that was pretty fucking full of Gryffindor nerve."

"Gryffindor?" Seamus repeated, the smallest of grins inching it's way onto his lips, "No my friend. That was Irish nerve."

Somewhere in the distance, a bell rang thrice, startling the birds from the trees. Dean and Seamus turned automatically to stare back at the castle, their arms still clasped to once another.

"That's the signal for the train. Shay, I -"

"I know." Seamus nodded, "Wouldn't do ye good to miss it. Yer mam will be waiting for ye in London."

"And your Mammy will be fretting over her little Shemy back up in the castle."

"Ah, feck off." Seamus pushed Dean playfully, before pulling him back into a rib-crushing hug, "I'll see you in September, mate."

Pulling back, Seamus was extremely conscious of Dean's eyes upon him, staring at him with such ferocity it was as if he were seeing him for the first time in a new light.

"Promise you'll write, Shay?"

"Aye, I will."

"You say that every summer mate, never fucking do." Dean laughed as he began to walk away, pushing away the branches and blinking himself into the setting sun. Seamus followed, if only to grab his best friends hand quickly and give it a tight squeeze.

"Dean. I'll write. I promise."

Seamus had resigned himself to being beaten and downtrodden, if only because he knew the ends would justify the means. He was really taking his influence from Neville, which was odd in itself. Neville had always been a mate, but he'd been the mate you took the mickey out of, teased and belittled all in good humour. And suddenly he was the leader of a fucking rebellion. He was mopping up Seamus after a good round of stinging jinxes and Seamus couldn't help but realise just how much had changed.

And Seamus wasn't a teenager any more. He was not the same boy he had been when they had stood under the willow tree that day. He hadn't been in months. The person who had kissed Dean was a confused and determined boy and he had long been replaced by a bruised and beaten man. He didn't get drunk on cheap firewhiskey and ogle at girls, not anymore. He drank - more than he should - because it helped him forget and was mercilessly in love with his best friend. He was an adult and he fucking hated it.

And it would be easier, he thought, if Dean were there to grow up with him. Dean, who had been there when his voice finally broke, when he lost his virginity to the Ravenclaw in the year above and who had stood by him through every single pain and triumph asigned to a teenage boy. Dean, with whom he had shared the most adult of transitions, because it was Dean with whom he had fallen in love with. And maybe if Dean could share this too then he might be able to get out of it in more than one piece. But now there would always be a bit of himself that Dean would never understand and parts of Dean, he was sure, that Seamus could only guess at ...

But Dean was gone.

Hoping and praying that one day he would stroll through the castle doors did not disguise the fact that the boy he loved had little or no chance of still being alive. Images of Dean strewn out in the street, limp and lifeless as a lesson to those who could not help the way they were born ran rampant through his mind every second of every day. And perhaps Lavender was right. And perhaps Dean was too.

Perhaps there was a fine line between optimism and stupidity.

But as Seamus climbed the steps to the Owlery a week later, a fresh letter in hand that bore the name: Dean Thomas, where ever he is now, he couldn't help but feel that he didn't mind treading that line, if only to keep that fucking firework display going for a little while longer and keep himself from losing all faith in the world.

After all, he'd promised he would write.

A/N: First and probably last attempt at writing this ship. Just a quick thing to cure my insomnia and technically it's not my best, but I certainly enjoyed writing it. Reviews are very much appreciated!