Time hung at a stand still. Ireland always did seem to have that effect on those who came into her lovely arms dripping with secretive mists. Especially with those quaint tourists who wanted to kiss that bally old stone. My, was that blarney! The feeling of freedom that once danced on the mystical plains of his home seemed surreal. How could tall trees of brilliant green stretch into miles of untouched forests? How could the sun still shine, though obscured by loose grey clouds, and birds still sing when such was going on the world? In his world.
There was a time when he would've clung to a home. That feeling of being able to walk into the warmth of a kitchen glowing with embers laced with love and kinship. He had never found that in his house, not from his father. His emerald eyes danced over the scene that laid out before him. A gentle breeze wrapped around his body as Erin released him in and out of her gentle hold. Being home, in Ireland, was always nice, but how could he return to the one thing that would devastate him?
"Finnigan."
His head snapped on his neck as he whirled to face that man who stood at his side. There was not a moment of hesitation in the execution of the swivel in his sight. It wasn't that he didn't like people, per se, it was that you could never be sure of who was touching you, who was there, and what they were doing. Constant vigilance! He laughed in spite of himself. There was that lingering memory of his fourth year that hung on the term. Merlin, was that really five years ago?
"You okay?"
He shrugged. His eyes turned away from the red-haired man questioning him towards the rolling clouds that were stretching black hands around the late afternoon. That's right, it /should/ be gloomy in his opinion. There was a pause in his train of thought as his gaze drifted towards the dilapitated cottage that looked more as if it belonged in a painting than on the actual rolling hills of Erin. When was it that he had last been here? ...five years? Five long years. So much had happened in that timespan; so much, too much.
"The Ministry sends deepest apologies about your parents, Finnigan. One was a muggle, no?"
Another shrug.
"You sure you're okay, Finnigan?"
Again, he shrugged.
"How is life treating you, otherwise?"
A chuckle escaped his throat. Dry, raspy; almost as if he had not spoken in days. You could always trust Perceval Weasley to change the subject when he felt that someone was growing uncomfortable. A born diplomat? He believed that Percy was afraid of getting himself involved with anything. That was how Percy was, that was how he was made the youngest Minister of Magic that the wizard world had ever witnessed. The vast point was not that Seamus, for that was Finnigan's first name, was uncomfortable speaking about the recent events. He just did not want to talk about them with pompous, nasal-voiced Percy who was acting to care because of who he, Seamus Finnigan, was.
"Finnigan, can you talk?"
He shrugged, again, in a manner that was distinctly patronising. He turned and gave Percy a pointed look before his hand enclosed around the door to the small house. . .his home? There was one deep intake of breath as his eyes fluttered to a close. Could he handle this? The first step was taken blindly. He did not want to see this. He should turn around now. End it. He wanted to go back to London. To the safety of relative anonymity in the nameless crowds of the capital city. He couldn't bring himself to turn, though, and his eyes opened slowly.
The surroundings were still as cozy and plush as they had been five years ago. There was that ghastly red couch, missing large amount of threads, against the wall. Oh, how he hated that couch growing up! It was a slight turn to the left and the clean, homey kitchen where his mother always seemed to be. His nose twitched as he remembered the smell of cooking stew and mutton. There was a comfort to that smell, would it still linger? He could vaguely recall the day that he received his letter of acceptance to Hogwarts. His eyes shut again as he strained to draw up the picture of her face. She had been so happy that he had turned out at wizard. They had danced around the kitchen, he remembered, and she had made his favourite dessert. ...there were so many memories in the kitchen.
His legs carried him into the small room. There was a smell that lingered, that of rosewater and cinnamon. Was it his imagination or did laughter echo off the walls? Perhaps a good night of sleep was in order for him. His sharp eyes paused in their journey over the items lined neatly around the counters and against the wall to glance at the cracked wooden table. There had been card games with his father, talks about girls with his mum (how she had chided him about Lavender!), board games with friends, and tall glasses of warm milk with gooey chocolate chip cookies during the late nights for snack. He gave a derisive huff. Memories, nothing more.
"Well, Finnigan, what did you want to do about your parents?" There was no point to this game anymore. Percy wanted to return to London, as well. It was clear by the pursed look on his face and the way his lips pressed together as he looked around the halls.
When Seamus finally spoke, his voice was deep and throaty; this was nothing like the cheerful, boyish voice that he had all through Hogwarts. That carefree lilt of someone without a worry in the world. "Bury them here."
"Here?" There was a distinct note of shock in Percy's tone that annoyed Seamus.
"Here, Weasley," he confirmed around the steadily largening lump in his throat. Dammit! He had not wanted this. "At their home. ...at my home."
"I..." Percy stopped, hesitating, before he gave a very small nod of his head. "Understood."
Seamus nodded his head at Percy. There was no love stretching between the two men as the blonde turned away from the kitchen and into a dark hallway. Percy would be left to his own devices, no doubt he would disapparate to the life he wanted to return to. He did not want Percy to stay for this. To stay and hear the silent questions that screamed through Seamus' mind without any mercy.
He looked at the shut doors with the sort of hate and sadness in his eyes that only marked those who have seen great tragedy. Which room was it that Voldemort had snuffed his parents? In which room did they cry out for mercy and help? In which room had Seamus /murdered/ his parents? It was all because of him. His fault. He raised a hand to his forehead as if to make the voices whispering in his head stop. He wanted a minute of respite. Please. He could not help the familiar burning pricks at the corner of his eyes as he tried hard to replace his thoughts on something happy. What was happy? What good was there in his life? Lavender?
Finally, silence. The voices were done with him. The sound of pure quiet rang in his ears as he closed his hands around one of the golden knobs. This was his old bedroom. A place he hadn't stood in since he was, what, fifteen? Why had he stopped coming home? Why had he made the decision to spend his holidays with Dean? Was it all because his father couldn't stand the sight of having an abnormal son? ...and it wasn't even that, truthfully. His father couldn't stand the fact that he hadn't played Quidditch, or that he hadn't the top marks in his year. In his father's eyes, if he could not be a normal kid who played baseball than he had to be the BEST in the wizard world. Seamus, however, had not been the best. He had been only the boy, and then the man, that he could be. Why wasn't that ever enough?
He closed his eyes for a moment as he shut the bedroom door behind him. He didn't want to see it right way, he needed a moment. How would things look? His eyes roamed from the four poster bed lined with plaid sheets to all of his Irish Quidditch team support icons; banners, pennets, stickers, tne such. He shook his head, ignoring the smile that played at the corner of his lips. Was the last time he had been here after the Quidditch World Cup in 93? 94? He couldn't quite remembers. Dates had all become a futz in his brain. He lovingly reached out, nonetheless, and touched one of the green shamrocks that dangled against the white wall. It was still, after all these years, trying to sputter Connelly.
He wandered across the floor, smirking at the creak that accompanied each step. The wander ceased as he came to stop at a mahogany desk blanketed with dust. His finger drew a clean line down the cover of his favourite book when he had been in his fourth year, _Magical Me_ by Gilderoy Lockhart. People often said he looked like the old git, and though that was a compliment in same way, he found the writing to be humourous. Of course, they were all blatant lies. He should know as Lockhart had taught the Defense Against Dark Arts course in his second year.
...if he had never had Lupin. That wasn't fair. He could not blame the best professor that had graced his school year. It was not Lupin's fault that he became interested in the course, or in protecting those who needed it. Likewise, he could not blame Crouch for sparking an interest in the Aurors. It was ironic to think that Crouch, one of the most faithful to Voldemort, had been the one that had given him the fascination that eventually led to his career choice. In the end, he could not blame anyone but himself for choosing the career that he did.
He sat gingerly on the bed. The corner was turned down like they were waiting for him to only just send an owl that stated he was coming home. He looked down at his hands. . .scarred, weathered, old? He was nineteen, but he looked and acted like he was far older. He had taken so many lives, broken so many homes, but did the Death Eaters deserve lives, did they deserve homes? Did he have any sympathy left in his bones? Any morals in his thoughts?
He tore his gaze from his hands and looked up at the ceiling. He had to keep going. If he stopped, the whispers returned. It was like a pseudo-high. He was paranoid, but without a drug. His eyes shifted around the room, taking in postes of such people and things like: Celestina Warbeck (who had really turned out to be /bitch/, in his opinion), the Irish National Team of '93, the /first/ promo of the Firebolt, and various other things. His eyes dropped slowly towards the thing he was most hoping to avoid.
It was a framed photo. The frame around it was made of mahogany with flowers carved in. There was something distinctly ethereal to the way it was cut and made. Perhaps, however, that the aura of the frame was only a projection of the photo inside. It was him, barely a month old, with his mother. She was barely eighteen and her arms were wrapped around him in such a protective grasp. Love seeped through the photopaper and into the very hands that he held the frame in. His hands shook as they handled the treasure. He had killed her. He had fucking killed her. The room was spinning. Everything was growing distant. He had killed his mother.
He released a howl from his throat. The sound was more akin to an animal than to a man. Clear tears fell from his emerald pools; down his pale cheeks they carved paths that led, ultimately, to the glass inserted over the picture. The /great/ Finnigan! Come see! The nineteen year old boy who was only just out of Hogwarts! The Auror who had saved /so/ many lives! Captured /so/ many Death Eaters! Here he was, sobbing like a child over his parents. The parents that he had shunned from the age fifteen. The parents who had loved him wholly, despite their appearences. The parents he had murdered!
He would never forget that owl that had swooped in a week ago. Percy had tried to convey feelings of sorrow, which was kind, but he knew that Percy did not care. Percy only cared about himself and his position as the interim Minister of Magic. He was Percy's pride, along with those others. When Fudge had fallen, it was the youth that Percy organised that had risen to the challenge. He had been one of those youth with fresh eyes of wonder. My, how things changed in a year. The majestic eage owl had flown through his open window at ten in the evening.
Seamus had known there was bad news to accompany. He had a feeling. He could still recall the way his trembling fingers reached for the letter the owl held. It was all very formal. His parents had been murdered by a Death Eater who mourned the loss of her husband; one that he had only recently captured. The revenge the woman took was evident in the words that shined against the paper. His parents had been tortured until the brink of death and into madness before they were finally granted the peace of eternal sleep. That very thought took all sensation from his body. It was because of him. Had he not followed this career, they would be alive.
Was he really next on Voldemort's list? Did he care? Who would've thought, in all honesty, that the once popular, *somewhat* shallow boy of Gryffindor would come straight out of Hogwarts an Auror? Who would've ever guessed that he would be touted as the next Alastor Moody? He put his hands behind his head in a link of fingers that left the picture frame on his lap. His eyes searched the smiling face of his mother. For a brief moment, he wasn't sure that he did care. It would be an artful sacrifice, something legends are sung about.
But. . .why did they have to take his family? Seamus buried his head in his hands, the photograph next to him. His body racked with sobs as he finally let all of his pent-up sadness and anger drain from his body. Why? His mum was never very powerful, nor did she hold any clout, and his father was a muggle. This hatred he inspired in his line of work had led to this. The tears came out all the more harsh and bitter, like a flood the created small patches of water stains on his black robes. Black, of course, for the solitary of the moment.
It was hours later when he looked down at his brown leather watch. . .it had once belonged to his father, and he remembered receiving it on his thirteenth birthday. He could recall how he tried to bewitch it to be like a wizard's, but instead the watch had almost grown two heads. McGonagall had not be pleased with that! A small chortle bubbled in his throat as he stood from the bed with a solid push of his hand. The free hand moved upward to wipe his damp cheeks. It felt good to cry, to release, and if the things to come were to come. . .he'd be crying many more times.
A quick look in the silver mirror told him that he was red-eyed and puffy around the cheeks, but he did not care. For once he, Seamu Finnigan, was not going to hide behind a face. He was not going to pretend to be strong, happy, and cheerful like he had been at Hogwarts. He, Seamus Finnigan, had emotions and feelings, and he was not afraid of them anymore. He, Seamus Finnigan, knew that he would need all of these emotions to survive what was coming. He would do it. He, Seamus Finnigan, looked in the mirror and smiled at himself.
There was a time when he would've clung to a home. That feeling of being able to walk into the warmth of a kitchen glowing with embers laced with love and kinship. He had never found that in his house, not from his father. His emerald eyes danced over the scene that laid out before him. A gentle breeze wrapped around his body as Erin released him in and out of her gentle hold. Being home, in Ireland, was always nice, but how could he return to the one thing that would devastate him?
"Finnigan."
His head snapped on his neck as he whirled to face that man who stood at his side. There was not a moment of hesitation in the execution of the swivel in his sight. It wasn't that he didn't like people, per se, it was that you could never be sure of who was touching you, who was there, and what they were doing. Constant vigilance! He laughed in spite of himself. There was that lingering memory of his fourth year that hung on the term. Merlin, was that really five years ago?
"You okay?"
He shrugged. His eyes turned away from the red-haired man questioning him towards the rolling clouds that were stretching black hands around the late afternoon. That's right, it /should/ be gloomy in his opinion. There was a pause in his train of thought as his gaze drifted towards the dilapitated cottage that looked more as if it belonged in a painting than on the actual rolling hills of Erin. When was it that he had last been here? ...five years? Five long years. So much had happened in that timespan; so much, too much.
"The Ministry sends deepest apologies about your parents, Finnigan. One was a muggle, no?"
Another shrug.
"You sure you're okay, Finnigan?"
Again, he shrugged.
"How is life treating you, otherwise?"
A chuckle escaped his throat. Dry, raspy; almost as if he had not spoken in days. You could always trust Perceval Weasley to change the subject when he felt that someone was growing uncomfortable. A born diplomat? He believed that Percy was afraid of getting himself involved with anything. That was how Percy was, that was how he was made the youngest Minister of Magic that the wizard world had ever witnessed. The vast point was not that Seamus, for that was Finnigan's first name, was uncomfortable speaking about the recent events. He just did not want to talk about them with pompous, nasal-voiced Percy who was acting to care because of who he, Seamus Finnigan, was.
"Finnigan, can you talk?"
He shrugged, again, in a manner that was distinctly patronising. He turned and gave Percy a pointed look before his hand enclosed around the door to the small house. . .his home? There was one deep intake of breath as his eyes fluttered to a close. Could he handle this? The first step was taken blindly. He did not want to see this. He should turn around now. End it. He wanted to go back to London. To the safety of relative anonymity in the nameless crowds of the capital city. He couldn't bring himself to turn, though, and his eyes opened slowly.
The surroundings were still as cozy and plush as they had been five years ago. There was that ghastly red couch, missing large amount of threads, against the wall. Oh, how he hated that couch growing up! It was a slight turn to the left and the clean, homey kitchen where his mother always seemed to be. His nose twitched as he remembered the smell of cooking stew and mutton. There was a comfort to that smell, would it still linger? He could vaguely recall the day that he received his letter of acceptance to Hogwarts. His eyes shut again as he strained to draw up the picture of her face. She had been so happy that he had turned out at wizard. They had danced around the kitchen, he remembered, and she had made his favourite dessert. ...there were so many memories in the kitchen.
His legs carried him into the small room. There was a smell that lingered, that of rosewater and cinnamon. Was it his imagination or did laughter echo off the walls? Perhaps a good night of sleep was in order for him. His sharp eyes paused in their journey over the items lined neatly around the counters and against the wall to glance at the cracked wooden table. There had been card games with his father, talks about girls with his mum (how she had chided him about Lavender!), board games with friends, and tall glasses of warm milk with gooey chocolate chip cookies during the late nights for snack. He gave a derisive huff. Memories, nothing more.
"Well, Finnigan, what did you want to do about your parents?" There was no point to this game anymore. Percy wanted to return to London, as well. It was clear by the pursed look on his face and the way his lips pressed together as he looked around the halls.
When Seamus finally spoke, his voice was deep and throaty; this was nothing like the cheerful, boyish voice that he had all through Hogwarts. That carefree lilt of someone without a worry in the world. "Bury them here."
"Here?" There was a distinct note of shock in Percy's tone that annoyed Seamus.
"Here, Weasley," he confirmed around the steadily largening lump in his throat. Dammit! He had not wanted this. "At their home. ...at my home."
"I..." Percy stopped, hesitating, before he gave a very small nod of his head. "Understood."
Seamus nodded his head at Percy. There was no love stretching between the two men as the blonde turned away from the kitchen and into a dark hallway. Percy would be left to his own devices, no doubt he would disapparate to the life he wanted to return to. He did not want Percy to stay for this. To stay and hear the silent questions that screamed through Seamus' mind without any mercy.
He looked at the shut doors with the sort of hate and sadness in his eyes that only marked those who have seen great tragedy. Which room was it that Voldemort had snuffed his parents? In which room did they cry out for mercy and help? In which room had Seamus /murdered/ his parents? It was all because of him. His fault. He raised a hand to his forehead as if to make the voices whispering in his head stop. He wanted a minute of respite. Please. He could not help the familiar burning pricks at the corner of his eyes as he tried hard to replace his thoughts on something happy. What was happy? What good was there in his life? Lavender?
Finally, silence. The voices were done with him. The sound of pure quiet rang in his ears as he closed his hands around one of the golden knobs. This was his old bedroom. A place he hadn't stood in since he was, what, fifteen? Why had he stopped coming home? Why had he made the decision to spend his holidays with Dean? Was it all because his father couldn't stand the sight of having an abnormal son? ...and it wasn't even that, truthfully. His father couldn't stand the fact that he hadn't played Quidditch, or that he hadn't the top marks in his year. In his father's eyes, if he could not be a normal kid who played baseball than he had to be the BEST in the wizard world. Seamus, however, had not been the best. He had been only the boy, and then the man, that he could be. Why wasn't that ever enough?
He closed his eyes for a moment as he shut the bedroom door behind him. He didn't want to see it right way, he needed a moment. How would things look? His eyes roamed from the four poster bed lined with plaid sheets to all of his Irish Quidditch team support icons; banners, pennets, stickers, tne such. He shook his head, ignoring the smile that played at the corner of his lips. Was the last time he had been here after the Quidditch World Cup in 93? 94? He couldn't quite remembers. Dates had all become a futz in his brain. He lovingly reached out, nonetheless, and touched one of the green shamrocks that dangled against the white wall. It was still, after all these years, trying to sputter Connelly.
He wandered across the floor, smirking at the creak that accompanied each step. The wander ceased as he came to stop at a mahogany desk blanketed with dust. His finger drew a clean line down the cover of his favourite book when he had been in his fourth year, _Magical Me_ by Gilderoy Lockhart. People often said he looked like the old git, and though that was a compliment in same way, he found the writing to be humourous. Of course, they were all blatant lies. He should know as Lockhart had taught the Defense Against Dark Arts course in his second year.
...if he had never had Lupin. That wasn't fair. He could not blame the best professor that had graced his school year. It was not Lupin's fault that he became interested in the course, or in protecting those who needed it. Likewise, he could not blame Crouch for sparking an interest in the Aurors. It was ironic to think that Crouch, one of the most faithful to Voldemort, had been the one that had given him the fascination that eventually led to his career choice. In the end, he could not blame anyone but himself for choosing the career that he did.
He sat gingerly on the bed. The corner was turned down like they were waiting for him to only just send an owl that stated he was coming home. He looked down at his hands. . .scarred, weathered, old? He was nineteen, but he looked and acted like he was far older. He had taken so many lives, broken so many homes, but did the Death Eaters deserve lives, did they deserve homes? Did he have any sympathy left in his bones? Any morals in his thoughts?
He tore his gaze from his hands and looked up at the ceiling. He had to keep going. If he stopped, the whispers returned. It was like a pseudo-high. He was paranoid, but without a drug. His eyes shifted around the room, taking in postes of such people and things like: Celestina Warbeck (who had really turned out to be /bitch/, in his opinion), the Irish National Team of '93, the /first/ promo of the Firebolt, and various other things. His eyes dropped slowly towards the thing he was most hoping to avoid.
It was a framed photo. The frame around it was made of mahogany with flowers carved in. There was something distinctly ethereal to the way it was cut and made. Perhaps, however, that the aura of the frame was only a projection of the photo inside. It was him, barely a month old, with his mother. She was barely eighteen and her arms were wrapped around him in such a protective grasp. Love seeped through the photopaper and into the very hands that he held the frame in. His hands shook as they handled the treasure. He had killed her. He had fucking killed her. The room was spinning. Everything was growing distant. He had killed his mother.
He released a howl from his throat. The sound was more akin to an animal than to a man. Clear tears fell from his emerald pools; down his pale cheeks they carved paths that led, ultimately, to the glass inserted over the picture. The /great/ Finnigan! Come see! The nineteen year old boy who was only just out of Hogwarts! The Auror who had saved /so/ many lives! Captured /so/ many Death Eaters! Here he was, sobbing like a child over his parents. The parents that he had shunned from the age fifteen. The parents who had loved him wholly, despite their appearences. The parents he had murdered!
He would never forget that owl that had swooped in a week ago. Percy had tried to convey feelings of sorrow, which was kind, but he knew that Percy did not care. Percy only cared about himself and his position as the interim Minister of Magic. He was Percy's pride, along with those others. When Fudge had fallen, it was the youth that Percy organised that had risen to the challenge. He had been one of those youth with fresh eyes of wonder. My, how things changed in a year. The majestic eage owl had flown through his open window at ten in the evening.
Seamus had known there was bad news to accompany. He had a feeling. He could still recall the way his trembling fingers reached for the letter the owl held. It was all very formal. His parents had been murdered by a Death Eater who mourned the loss of her husband; one that he had only recently captured. The revenge the woman took was evident in the words that shined against the paper. His parents had been tortured until the brink of death and into madness before they were finally granted the peace of eternal sleep. That very thought took all sensation from his body. It was because of him. Had he not followed this career, they would be alive.
Was he really next on Voldemort's list? Did he care? Who would've thought, in all honesty, that the once popular, *somewhat* shallow boy of Gryffindor would come straight out of Hogwarts an Auror? Who would've ever guessed that he would be touted as the next Alastor Moody? He put his hands behind his head in a link of fingers that left the picture frame on his lap. His eyes searched the smiling face of his mother. For a brief moment, he wasn't sure that he did care. It would be an artful sacrifice, something legends are sung about.
But. . .why did they have to take his family? Seamus buried his head in his hands, the photograph next to him. His body racked with sobs as he finally let all of his pent-up sadness and anger drain from his body. Why? His mum was never very powerful, nor did she hold any clout, and his father was a muggle. This hatred he inspired in his line of work had led to this. The tears came out all the more harsh and bitter, like a flood the created small patches of water stains on his black robes. Black, of course, for the solitary of the moment.
It was hours later when he looked down at his brown leather watch. . .it had once belonged to his father, and he remembered receiving it on his thirteenth birthday. He could recall how he tried to bewitch it to be like a wizard's, but instead the watch had almost grown two heads. McGonagall had not be pleased with that! A small chortle bubbled in his throat as he stood from the bed with a solid push of his hand. The free hand moved upward to wipe his damp cheeks. It felt good to cry, to release, and if the things to come were to come. . .he'd be crying many more times.
A quick look in the silver mirror told him that he was red-eyed and puffy around the cheeks, but he did not care. For once he, Seamu Finnigan, was not going to hide behind a face. He was not going to pretend to be strong, happy, and cheerful like he had been at Hogwarts. He, Seamus Finnigan, had emotions and feelings, and he was not afraid of them anymore. He, Seamus Finnigan, knew that he would need all of these emotions to survive what was coming. He would do it. He, Seamus Finnigan, looked in the mirror and smiled at himself.