Dean Thomas sat scrunched in a corner of a disused corridor just outside the Slytherin common room. He tapped the splint on his left wrist aimlessly; he'd broken it a week before the war started, and it never took to healing magic. He looked up from his hugged knees, and saw his absence of friends. "Oh look." He muttered under his breath, "There are Ginny and Luna and Neville." He gestured to the thin air, where Ginny, Luna and Neville did not stand. He sat alone. Footsteps could be heard above him; some were heavy and rhythmic, others were lighter and in a disorganised form. He tried to see if he recognised the sound of the footsteps, and he thought he could make out Professor McGonagall's, but they too faded after a minute. He put his head into his knees again, and frowned to himself. He pointed to mid-air, "And there is…" he looked up, pondering a name to use. His face dropped.
"Hello." An Irish drawl greeted Dean's shocked face. "Miss me?" Seamus stepped forward into a pool of sunlight. Dean, however, did not wait to answer. Since the war started, Dean had not even seen Seamus, much less spoken to him. He scrambled to his feet in a fit of disbelief, and flung his good arm around Seamus. Dean refused to let himself cry, but he couldn't help welling up.
"No." he bit back a few solemn tears. Seamus pushed Dean out to arm's length, admiring the scar on his upper lip.
"How'd you do that?" Seamus avoided Dean's obvious yearning. He pointed to the little healed gash.
"When I fell off the broom, remember?" Seamus cast his memory back to the day Dean broke his wrist.
"Oh yeah, we were on the Quidditch pitch." He pulled a strained face for half a second, thinking. "And that Parkinson girl flung the ball at you?" Dean nodded slowly, running his tongue gently over the scar.
"We weren't even playing Quidditch…" Dean frowned sadly, and hugged his friend briefly. "Why are you down here?" Seamus pulled away, and shuffled uncomfortably.
"I was looking for you, actually." He wrung his hands in front of his stomach.
"Why?" Dean asked innocently, wanting desperately to know why his friend had ran through a war zone despite not seeing him for weeks. Seamus was silent for a moment. "Shea?" The once common nick-name was rarely used in this troubled time.
"I'm…" He struggled on his words, "Fightinginthewar." He spilled the words out of his mouth, like the waterfall of tears that followed. "I am so sorry, Dean." Dean's strong façade also broke, and joined his friend in crying.
"You're… fighting?" Seamus nodded. "Oh." Dean wiped his eyes and went to comfort his clearly sorrowful friend.
"And…" Seamus stood up properly, meeting Dean Eye for eye. "If I don't come back, I want you to know something." He stated, almost emotionless. Almost.
"What?" Dean asked; again, innocently. But Seamus did not speak. He only pulled Dean into a tense embrace, and fluttered his lips gently on Dean's.
He took Dean's hand and whispered, "I need to know you feel the same." Dean nodded, and locked his hand into Seamus'.
"Of course." He smiled, trying to lighten the situation, "It's how it's got to be, right?" Seamus nodded, smiling back. "I'll miss you, though." Dean mumbled, "What if you don't come back?"
Seamus smiled reassuringly, "I will. I promise." He finally let go of Dean's hand fully, pecked him on the cheek and turned to walk away.
Dean called after him, "Blow 'em up?"
"Of course!" Seamus yelled back, waving, "I'm the boy on fire!" He joked, waving his new love away once more.
"Promise you'll come back and rescue me from the big bad Death Eaters?" Dean called again, desperately, willing Seamus to stay.
"I promise!" Seamus turned the corner to the corridor.
And he broke that promise.