Notes: Written for Laura (Someone aka Me) as part of last year's (oops) Gift Giving Extravaganza. Lo dear, you mentioned this soulmate!AU a while ago, and the idea was too tempting not to write it. I don't think I handled it in a conventional way (and I'm sorry; this is much too long) but I hope you still enjoy this.

More Mistakes Along the Way

It starts when he's five. He falls while chasing after his cousin and he cuts his knee. The blood doesn't faze him, but so does the odd tingle, the foreign writing that appears on his arm.

His mother scolds him when she sees the tears in his eyes. Be more careful, she says. You're always causing trouble. But her eyes widen when Seamus shows her his arm. She shakes as she reads. Tears fall from her eyes as she says it happens to the lucky among wizards. There's someone waiting for you, she says. Treat her well.

Seamus doesn't feel lucky, however. There's bound to be rules, but the rules are unclear. He now has to make sure to stay out of trouble, to play clean and safe, so a baby in another faraway place won't suffer from his recklessness.

There goes every little adventure his heart can come up with, and they call it true love. Soulmates.

As Seamus grows up, paint spots and gibberish start to appear. As he's Sorted into Gryffindor and his thirst for life increases, erratic strokes turn into the mix of tildes and vowels that make up French. He starts to wonder, for the first time, who is this happy little stranger with her knees always bruised, hands stained with paint.

A little girl, all the way in France.

He huffs. That settles it for him.

Gabrielle.

He's always known her name. It was the first thing she would write as a toddler, and if she inquired for his, her plea got lost in translation.

Gabrielle, whose knees are no longer bruised and hands are no longer stained. Many years of seeing other person's marks on his skin are making him feel like a companion, quiet, ethereal, has just left.

He's trying to take care of himself as well. Quite unlucky, really, that Seamus has a penchant for chaotic magic and making things explode. She might see these marks every now and then. Nothing serious, nothing that will stay for more than a few days.

Seamus still tries. He really, really does.

Even then, his skin is still too clean, and his heart feels a little heavier.

"My name is Seamus," he writes. He erases it quickly, and prays she doesn't see it.

He has to take someone to the Yule Ball, he reasons. And Lavender is more fun than expected, so why not? It's fun, it's part of life. Love and desire elude him, but he's content with letting it all burn out before it even matters.

Even then... even then, it stings. He's kept his spell a secret because it's invasive enough that he has access to this whole other human being; prying eyes can't possibly be welcome. He stands by his choice; his mother tells him to wait and Hermione - she knows without being told, she always does. Or maybe that hard stare is a figment of his imagination.

Dean, however. Dean has always known and said nothing. To him, being a wizard is enough of a miracle. The possibility of soulmates is another stripe on the tiger.

"I'm fourteen. I didn't ask for any of this." Seamus huffs. "She could be like Pansy Parkinson, for all we know."

His friend just shakes his head. "Don't ask me, mate. I'm with you on this one."

It's not the first time that Seamus's eyes linger on Dean a little longer than they should.

He paints on his arm on his free period. Eagles, skulls, fire, dragons. Or at least he tries, according to Dean, who spends the whole hour laughing at his doodles.

Under his artwork, there's only one phrase, the first one he's written to her in years. It's in English, so he hopes she knows or at least, there's someone there to translate.

"This is for yesterday's lipstick." Isn't she too young for make-up, anyway?

"Ask me to draw next time, mate," Dean says.

The thought of having Dean's gentle hands on his body sends tingles up his spine. Even if it's only his arm.

"Would be a waste of precious talent," he answers.

After all, he only wears the drawing for a couple of hours at the evening. There's so much trouble he can potentially get her into before starting to feel the weight of remorse. But when he finally washes it off, two words appear in its place:

"You're funny."

"Are you alright?"

He's forgotten her. In his quest for survival, in his fight for what's right, in his longing to have his best friend back, he's forgotten her. He's bruised and bleeding, now with an ugly gash in his cheek that will surely leave some sort of scar.

The rules, so tricky. Gabrielle's skin won't split, won't bleed, but the pain will sting and the scar will remain. It's not her fault Alecto Carrow thinks Muggles are like filthy pigs. Seamus thinks Alecto Carrow herself wouldn't stand out in a pigsty. It's not Gabrielle's fault that he'd let his feelings be known.

The voice of his mother, back from when he was five, begs him to think of this girl and treat her well and his insides churn at the knowledge that Gabrielle will still pay.

"I'm fine. I'm so sorry. I fucked up."

He wants to be apologetic for his language, but he remembers being twelve. He'd used far worse language back then.

"You're in Hogwarts, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"I don't even know your name."

He's about to write it, but his hand stops. A drop of ink falls, so she can see his hesitation before he writes,

"It's for the best."

If this girl is found, linked to him... who knows.

"Please take care."

Maybe it's a good thing that there's someone out there, preventing him from going too far.

"Sure thing. Wouldn't want to ruin a girl's pretty face."

He stopped contacting her after the war. There's no need for Gabrielle to worry now, to constantly know he's safe. Back then, he didn't even use words; he would doodle, trying to imitate the things he'd seen Dean draw. Just as a sign.

Dean is right next to him, here and now. Moving in with Dean feels like playing Russian roulette. Sometimes he's his old best friend. Some other times, he's living with a stranger. Seamus never knows what he's going to get, especially after it all crashes down too quickly. It was months of absence after they were so used to each other. Too quickly their conversations turned into banter, which turned into kisses.

Years of hoping, of waiting, only to discover that love is not enough when you find the right person at the wrong time.

Dean wants more than Seamus can give. It's not only more than kisses and cuddles, more than touches and caresses. He wants more than that, a family, kids, a home. Dean wants certainty, he wants a clear, safe road. Seamus cannot blame him; Dean has had enough adventure for three lifetimes.

Seamus wants... what does Seamus even want? He wants his early twenties of rushing through one way streets. He doesn't mind starting over, again, and again. He doesn't know when he'll find a path worth following all the way to the very end. May that path bring love and a stable job. May that path bring joy and freedom.

But he knows one thing, - he can't take Dean along for the ride.

"You don't mind if I go out with someone, do you?"

It can't be right. Gabrielle should be asking him, a pen-pal at best, a stranger at worst. Seamus never awarded her the same respect either; it never crossed his mind.

"You don't need my permission." He's about to clean his quill, but he adds, "No hickeys, though."

She doesn't ask him if he's gone out with someone. He thinks maybe Dean wasn't as careful as they'd thought. But maybe, she simply doesn't care.

Gabrielle's failed relationship is all it takes.

She doesn't say it, but Seamus knows. She's fifteen and romantic, idealistic. She dreams of love and a bright future. She writes more often than she ever did, actively seeking him out.

"I'm going to England in the summer. My sister lives there."

It's not the first time she hints at a meeting, and not the first time Seamus feels compelled to refuse. Meeting her... meeting her will surely change things. The moment he sees her, that's when he'll have to make a choice.

He's had enough.

"I dream about you sometimes," she insists. "But you never have a face. I want to see your face."

"You're not missing on much."

"I don't need to fall in love, I just want to meet you. There should be a reason why we're linked. There must be."

"I cannot have this conversation with anyone under seventeen."

"I'm glad you want to be a gentleman, but I am not a child."

"Never said you were. Please stop asking."

Gabrielle doesn't only stop asking, but she stops writing altogether.

Harry Potter is the second person to ever tell him that the binding spell is a suggestion, something to consider but not fully abide by. Third, if one counts Gabrielle herself, who never made him feel as if he must obey the words of fate. Not even at her most insistent.

"I chose to fight," Harry says. "You can choose to walk away."

He's grateful, for the very first time. Harry's curse led him to fight, while he might be bound to find something beautiful. Harry's curse led him to grow up before his time. Seamus's curse is sometimes, just sometimes, a blessing. In a way, he thinks, Gabrielle took care of him before he could take care of himself.

For once, he's not walking away. He's not walking toward her. He's just walking.

The only place Dean can properly draw in is on his friend's belly. Dean works in silence, looking up at Seamus's relaxed features, and down at his work of art. Seamus lies down, eyes closed.

Dean's touch feels like fire.

He closes his eyes, wishing for those thoughts to dissipate. He beckons the abstract image of Gabrielle, but that doesn't make it better. Who would've thought, that the possibility of losing Gabrielle forever would scare him so? It's been years, and part of him wants the chance. It's a risk, an adventure. There's danger ahead. But isn't this what he's been craving all his life? This ever-present need to step forward and face life as it comes?

Dean is not fully done, still adding some details, when writing appears on his forearm. Dean sees it first and he smiles, reading it aloud.

"That was one good-looking man." Dean reads. "I will never forget that face."

That lets him know all he needs. Two years, and her heart has grown stronger and her joyfulness has turned into poise. An adult not only in numbers, but in manners. She once said that she didn't need to fall in love.

Only this time around, he believes her.

When Dean is done painting, when Seamus expresses his gratitude with a couple of drinks. When he's alone in his room and done examining that accurate portrait of his face. When the intensity of the moment subsides, that's when he finds the propriety to return the compliment.

"I'm flattered," he writes. "But I'm sure you make my scars look better than I do."

She answers right away.

"I wear your scars with pride."

Seamus still wonders what to look for, even as if he has it all. He makes enchanted fireworks for a living and it's like a dream come true, but what now? Is this what his life is going to look like forever? Walking, walking, forever walking. He'd expected to make more mistakes along the way, because that's him, Seamus, improvising life and hoping to fall on his feet sometime, somewhere.

Twenty-four, he thinks, is too young to settle down like this. Everyone around him is getting married and having children. Dean actively looks for a partner. But Seamus feels youthful, a little too youthful, and entirely unprepared to face life as he's supposed to.

Then again, nothing in his life has ever worked as it's supposed to.

He considers it, he seriously considers it. He wants to fly out to Paris and seek out this girl, this woman, that fate has tied him to. Maybe it was wrong to run away. Maybe it was wrong to turn his back. Her words, her ever-present words assault him once again.

I don't need to fall in love.

It might be too late to fix it now.

It happens. Abrupt, unexpected, and how cliché it is, that it happens at a wedding. Harry's wedding, no less. Dean chats with Ginny, the beautiful bride, another lost love he'd had to let go. And Seamus is about to join him, but he's stopped by one of the bridesmaids.

"Excuse me," she says. There's a mix of firmness and hesitation in her voice that Seamus never thought possible. The woman clutches her little purse with both hands and her head is slightly tilted down, as if she's afraid to meet his eye.

He first recognizes her as Fleur Delacour's younger sister. He's seen her once or twice before, from afar, without a hint of interest other than a passing thought about Delacour beauty. She's stunning for sure, but her eyes... her eyes are radiant. No one has ever been so happy to see him.

That's when he sees it, up close, the faint line on her cheek that reflects his. A few seconds pass before he can say anything at all.

"Guess I didn't ruin you too badly, Gabrielle."

He wonders if he's always made her laugh like that. The sound is pleasant, vitalizing.

"My sister said she'd met someone with a scar just like mine. I just had to make sure." Her English, flawless. Only the tiniest hint of an accent peeks through. "And I still don't know your name."

"Right." He scratches his nape, struggling to keep eye contact. "I'm Seamus. Seamus Finnigan."

"Seamus."

He feels it, shivers up and down his spine, the weight of destiny. Through his mind rushes every moment, every decision that led him there. Fate, tired of them pretending to have a choice and forcing them together in a way none of them had expected.

Dean's eyes dig into his. Seamus blinks, taking his gaze to the young woman standing in front of him. This is too public a place for an encounter so intimate.

"Gabrielle, do you dance?"

Half an hour later, Gabrielle points out that being physically able to dance doesn't mean that Seamus can dance.

Much to his surprise, she's also determined to show him the difference.

They feet hurt from dancing, their bellies ache from laughing so much. But then Seamus finds himself spilling secrets; he finds that her face often mirrors his thoughts. The stars above embolden them, the delicate taste in the wedding decorations making it all more surreal.

So Gabrielle brings it up - soulmates. And that reminds him.

"You said once, that we don't need to fall in love."

"Do you believe that?"

Deep down, he's always known. Seamus knows love, and knows better than anyone that it takes more than that.

"I always have, but does that mean you don't want to try?"

Seamus's question, candid in nature, might have come off as eager. Gabrielle's lips curve ever-so-slightly, but the smile in her eyes is unmistakable.

"I said no such thing, but don't take that as a promise. I spent half my life wishing I could erase my skin, and half my life wanting answers."

Soulmates, if anything, means being in the same page effortlessly.

"We've always had a choice."

"The thing is, Seamus, we didn't choose to meet. Yet here we are."

Seamus cannot deny destiny. Not even as he's confident it's all a matter of choice, a collection of his decisions. Fitting, then, that he'd chosen to trust time rather than fate. A fate that, for some incredible reason, had brought them together when the time was just right.

His eyes drift to Dean. Dean, who has quickly connected the dots and watches them from two tables over.

"Isn't it true for everyone else?"

"What do you mean?"

"Everyone in your life. Your friends. Your family. Did you choose to meet them?"

A smile tugs at her lips once again, but this time around, she doesn't answer. Seamus, however, doesn't need an answer. If there were answers to be found, he's only found the one that's been inside of him all along. It's true, love is not enough. Neither is fate.

Dean is now looking away. Gabrielle is entranced by the enchanted fireflies.

And Seamus still walking.