Crossing Lines

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The dining hall assaults Dean's ears with noise when he walks in; lunch is the longest break between classes and everyone seems to be talking as loud and as fast as they can to make sure they fit everything in before they're sent off to the next session. First years crowd in clumps at the front of the tables, screeching at each other, while the older students lounge against one another at the back near the doors. Long stretches of tables are filled with food, a thousand different smells swarming up the Gryffindor's nose - chicken, cooked beans, beets, spices, breads, all springing Dean's empty stomach into an uproar.

Readjusting his books against his chest, Dean pauses at the head of one table, dark eyes searching each side for the face of his best mate. Seamus was almost always here before him. The boy had a bottomless stomach that was never satisfied and he sprinted here every day to eat as much as he could before being dismissed. Dean frowns when the sandy hair and freckled face and the hazel pitted eyes don't swivel to find him, as well. Leaning down, Dean dumps his books on the corner of the table and presses his elbow into Neville Longbottom's side as he sits down.

"Have you seen Seamus?"

Neville, dark hair mussed and tickling his eyelashes, shakes his head, popping a piece of bread roll into his mouth. "Not fince dis mornin'."

Dean's frown deepens, scanning the tables once more. "Probably got himself another detention, the git." He snatches a bread roll for himself from the plate in front of Neville, tearing a clump of the bread off and throwing it into his mouth. Seamus is known for his temper. More than once this year alone he'd landed himself in lunch detention because of his smart mouth and tendency to throw fists over trivial things. These sorts of things didn't happen in the classes he shared with Dean, though. Dean possess an ability unique to him and Seamus' mother of being able to calm the Irish boy down. Dean made sure Seamus didn't get his stupid arse in trouble when they were together.

Alone, however, Seamus is notorious for landing himself in the hands of discipline.

Comforted by the thought that Seamus is indeed enduring some kind of punishment he likely deserves, Dean allows himself to relax and fall into easy conversation with Neville and a pair of Ravenclaw twins across the table. When he feels a hand on his shoulder a few minutes later, he assumes it's Seamus, and turns with a bright grin and a snappy comment about the other Gryffindor being late, only for it to scatter out of his ears at the sight of Professor McGonagall staring down at him. Her emerald robes are pinched at her throat, crescent shaped glassed perched precariously on the edge of her nose.

Dean is immediately tense. "Professor?"

"Mr. Finnigan is in the hospital wing. I thought it would be best to fetch you immediately - "

Dean doesn't wait to be lead. Mumbling an 'excuse me', he very nearly shoves Professor McGonagall to the side in order to wiggle past her and break into a run toward the doors. Students twist to stare at him as he takes off. Filch's angry voice saws through the hallway after him, but Dean doesn't stop. His feet slap against the floors as he winds his way to the hospital wing. Panic, too cold and yet scalding in his veins, scars through his limbs. In retrospect, he probably should have stayed behind to ask McGonagall if he was all right, but the urge - no, the need to be at Seamus' side took over him. Dean might have been embarrassed about this had he not been consumed with the fear that Seamus had done some kind of permanent damage to himself, or worse.

Seamus has been his best mate since first year. He still remembers with vivid detail - the smell of the train smoke clogging his lungs, the rush of feet and the cries of parents as they clasped their children in goodbye hugs. He had stepped onto the train and behind him came the Irish twang, then much squeakier, "Ay, mate, ye dropped somethin'."

Dean turned. Seamus has always been tiny, but back then it was almost comical how short he was, black robes swallowing his hands and feet. His hair was a great sandy mop with too many freckles cramped on the small circle of his face. Grinning, he held out a hand. It was one of Dean's pencils he had brought to doodle with for the trip.

"Thanks." Dean took the pencil and used it to point down the train corridor. "Wanna snag a cart?"

"Sure!" Seamus clapped his hand on Dean's shoulder and steered him onward. "That is, if ye've got any money. I'm starving and that treat trolley is going to drive me completely bonkers if I don't get something off of it."

It had been a very delicious start to a friendship he had no intention of ever severing. Seamus was the only person who had seen Dean break open, talking about the dad he never knew, the sisters he can't share magic with, the daunting horror of Voldemort rising again and threatening to send him into hiding in the near future. And Dean held information he knew for a fact Seamus had never told anyone else, stuff so buried and dark and secret that it took quite a few butterbeers to give him the courage to say it, like Seamus' father who took a 'nasty shock' when he found out about his mother being a witch which wasn't nearly as innocent as it sounded, the years he spent hiding from his father's alcoholic rage and the divorce that nearly got his mother killed the summer holiday between second and third year, the months of dark instability living with various relatives until finally abandoning his home country altogether and moving to England.

All of the things that have hurt them, damaged them, torn them up and spat them out are restricted to the other's mind. Seamus had only cried in front of Dean. Dean had only felt comfortable hugging Seamus. Words that could not be spoken to anyone else had been exchanged strictly between Seamus and Dean and had wound about their ribs and sewn them together. For them, there was no one else.

Dean loves his family, cares for his other friends, but there is only one Seamus.

Magic clearly exists, so perhaps fate - and soulmates and love and forever - does, too. Dean certainly hopes that it does.

That is why he runs so fast his lungs burn and he dodges around stray students and a few professors without using his manners. Seamus is his one and only and he needs him more than any of these other kids would ever understand. He can't not know if he's okay, can't walk patiently beside McGonagall to visit his friend in the hospital wing. He has to get here now and make sure he's okay before his heart simply bursts.

By the time he reaches the hospital wing, he's out of breath but still moving, pushing the door open with his shoulder. The room is lined wit beds on either side - some of them curtained off, others holding students with stuffy noses or Quidditch practice accidents. Dean's eyes devour the room, breathing still heavy, and if someone who didn't know any better (like everyone in the room) it would appear that Dean was having some kind of fit.

"Mr. Thomas?"

Dean's eyes swivel almost crazily to Madam Pomfrey. The plump, soft woman gauges him slowly, holding a small glass container in her hands.

"Where is he?" Dean's throat is tight, making his voice more strained than he expected. Taking a deep breath, and realizing how completely insane he seems, Dean tries again. "Sorry, miss. Where's Seamus? Is he okay?"

Madam Pomfrey relaxes somewhat. She indicates down the room. "Second to last bed on the right. He's fine, dear." Her voice is motherly, affectionate. "Had an accident in Potions is all. A little burned up."

"Thank you." Dean hustles down the aisle. Although he feels considerably better, there's still a tension in his arms and legs that simply won't defuse until he has Seamus in his sight. Pausing beside the curtained bed, the second from the last on the right side, he listens. Trapped within the curtain is a distinct Irish voice grumbling something probably profane under his breath. Dean releases a sigh of pure cold relief as he pulls the curtain back.

Seamus lifts his head from the pillow. His freckles are completely wiped out by some sort of black ash. One of his eyebrows has been completely burned off and a nasty looking blister is growing on his cheekbone. Sandy hair is streaked with black, the bangs singed with heat and giving Seamus a very lopsided, downright awful look. The tip of his nose is blazing red.

Something balloons in Dean's chest, something warm and soft, because even like this, Seamus is so beautiful that it makes Dean's throat tight.

Dean's shoulders sink as the tension whistles out. Seamus is alive and not severely maimed. A chuckle rumbles in his chest, able to finally push his protective panic at bay. "You look like shit, mate," Dean says with a curve of his lips, sliding the curtain shut behind his back.

"Piss off," Seamus clips automatically, pushing himself up in a sitting position. His feet - shoeless - fold and tuck beneath him. "Ain't having a good day, if ye can't tell." It's hard to tell beneath the black marring his skin, but Dean is certain Seamus is blushing. Seamus is bold and quick lipped and ready to fight to the death if he has to, but being publicly embarrassed is never any fun.

"I see that," Dean assures, moving to sit on the edge of the hospital bed. He reaches up, using his thumb to rub at a thick black smear on Seamus' chin. The Irish boy pulls away, grumbling, but Dean just leans closer, determined to get rid of the mark. "McGonagall came up to me at lunch, said you were in the hospital wing ... I almost lost it, Shay." He laughs, shaking his head. "Ran like my life depended on it over here to make sure you were okay."

This pulls a smile out of Seamus, though it looks like it causes his face a decent amount of pain to do so. "Ye're like a worried mother bird, ye know that?" His hand raises, snatching Dean's, fingers curling tightly around the other boy's.

"Come off it," Dean mumbles, clearly embarrassed, but smirking up at Seamus knowingly. "Can't have my best mate going around blowing his face clean off, can I?"

Seamus rolls his eyes before directing them down to the palm he has captured. Turning it over so the lines stitching Dean's skin face up, Seamus runs a distracted fingertip along them, as if following the routes of a map. "It wasn't me fault, honest! I was stuck workin' with Elizabeth Hemmins - you know her, a complete git, I don't care if that's mean - and she puts something in the potion and suddenly, bam! Right in me face!" Seamus shakes his head, the hands holding Dean's trembling. "I don't care if she's a girl, Dean, I'll pop her a good one right in her sodding little mouth - and ye know that everyone's gonna think it was me, but it wasn't! I could spit - "

"Hey, hey." Dean's free hand lands on Seamus' knee. It isn't unusual for Seamus to blow off like this, spewing flames from his mouth and ears, but Dean still finds it terribly adorable. Dean leans closer on the bed, his other hand twisting free from Seamus' to capture the Irish boy's chin between his fingers. "I believe you."

Seamus' lips pubble with a heavy sigh. "Ye better believe me."

Smiling, Dean lowers his hand, both of his feeling along the bed to find Seamus', not once breaking his eye contact with his best mate. Seamus stares down at their hands, a smile creeping over his lips. Dean's voice suddenly drops with severity as his concern for Seamus' well-being sneaks into control again. "Please be more careful, Shay."

"Ye think I do these things on purpose -"

"Some of them, yes." Dean levels his gaze on Seamus when the Irish boy shoots him an angry look. "The fights? The detentions? One of these days you're going to get really hurt and it'll take more than a night or two in the hospital wing to fix you."

Seamus' jaw sets with a click. Withdrawing his hands from Dean's, he crosses them, falling back on the bed. "I'd be a lot more worried about yerself."

Dark eyebrows meet over his nose. "What'd you mean?"

"Ye're a muggle born." Seamus says the words slowly, quietly, like he doesn't want anyone overhearing him. "Or, at least, ye can't prove yer dad was a wizard, so ye might as well be muggle born. Ye're in much more danger than I am, Dean."

Dean swallows hard, because Seamus is right. Dean can't prove his magical heritage, therefore he's just as worse off as the muggle born students. He's in more and more danger the higher the threat of Voldemort rising again becomes. He's not pure enough. He could be taken away from the safe haven of Hogwarts, away from Seamus.

A flash of a life he can't imagine having to bear flashes across his eyes - not knowing where Seamus is. Not being able to talk to him, to see him, waking up every morning with the crushing ache of being separated. Summer holidays almost proved too much for them - could they go months? Years? And what if Dean did die, and Seamus was without the one person who made him feel like he mattered? Could Seamus make it?

Dean blinks hard when he realizes that, no, Seamus wouldn't survive Dean getting hurt, let alone dying. The two are too much of the same person for the other to live alone.

Dean's fingers tighten around Seamus' knee, giving a slight shake of his head. "Well, we'll worry about that when it comes. In the mean time, stop getting yourself hurt. It makes me feel ... powerless."

Seamus' eyes are heavy on Dean. "I don't need ye to protect me like some bodyguard, Dean."

"I know. But I do need you." Dean stresses this - wanting and needing were not the same thing. They had long since crossed that line. "Alive, preferably, and with all your right parts. You'd be shit company dead."

A moment passes with neither of them looking at each other, the space between them silent. Simultaneously, the boys connect their gazes again.

"I love ye, mate," Seamus whispers, his fingers crawling across the blanket until his palm lands on top of Dean's. "I'm completely mad for ye."

A tight smile takes over the taller boy's lips. "Totally hot for you myself." His eyes narrow. "Will kissing you hurt?"

"Let's find out."

So they do. And it does hurt, but Dean can tell that Seamus just doesn't want to ruin the moment.

A/N: I have so many feelings for my unpopular OTP.