With thanks to my beta, Poseida Lunar.
Times like these....
Seamus remembered when it all began. His first letter home, written in his childish eleven-year-old scrawl. I was sorted into Gryffindor, Mam, and you'll never believe it but Harry Potter is in Gryffindor too! He's quite nice really. I sort of imagined him to be a lot taller and louder, but he's all sort of quiet really, doesn't speak much. He mumbles a lot when Professor Snape (that's the git of a Potions professor) calls on him in class...
His Mam had written back excitedly in big loopy handwriting. Harry Potter! Of all people! Friends with her little Seamus! She hoped Harry would befriend him, make sure he settled in alright...
He showed the letter to Dean afterwards but Dean just gazed at him with calm, cool eyes.
"Perhaps," he said, "you're the one that should be looking after him."
"Why?" Seamus asked, surprised. "He's probably got loads of friends already. He wouldn't even notice me, really. I'd just be a speck."
"The smallest things make the heart burn the brightest," Dean quoted but the Irish boy just turned away, annoyed.
Maybe Dean saw something Seamus didn't or maybe Dean had the gift of the sight. Seamus hated that about Dean sometimes. He seemed a lot older than eleven. When Seamus wanted to feed Mrs Norris a saucer of milk laced with Hair-Growth serum or throw Stink Pellets at the Slytherin boys, Dean would just watch from a distance. Sometimes he'd smile and shake his head. Seamus liked trying to get Dean to smile. It was a secret challenge.
Dean didn't go in for pranks or the House gang wars much. He could be found hiding in the Owlery, watching the birds fly in and out, or in the rose garden on warm May nights, sketching the lake; a canvas of reflected stars waiting for him to capture the moment, to pin it on paper like a butterfly. Sometimes Dean couldn't be found at all. By the time they were in third year, Dean was able to move as stealthily as a cat. If he didn't want anyone to find him, they simply couldn't. He had secret alcoves, shadowy corners, nooks and crannies all over the castle.
Seamus remembered the hubbub in fourth year. Ron Weasley was spitting fire at his best friend, Harry Potter! The girls weren't the only ones gossiping. Seamus grinned in the dark when he heard Ron snapping at Harry. Secret thoughts bubbled in the spiteful shadowy corners of the sandy-haired boy's mind: Yes, Harry was selfish, wasn't he? It was just a big show, the whole doe-eyed nervous boy act, wasn't it? He defeated Voldemort in first year, he killed a basilisk in second...he wasn't afraid of anything, he just pretended to be...for attention, for sympathy. Jealousy and bitterness churned in Seamus's stomach and yes, he remembered lying there in his bed smiling. When Dean saw his white teeth shining in the dark, he leaned across and whispered.
"Don't hate him."
"Maybe Ron's right," Seamus said eagerly, ignoring Dean's words, riling for a good snitching session about the great Harry Potter. But Dean closed his eyes and turned away. "Maybe Harry put his name in the cup, maybe it's just another attention-seeking act. Why would somebody put his name in the cup? Why would somebody want him to have fame and glory?" Seamus continued.
There was a long silence. Dean turned to face the ceiling, opening his eyes again. Seamus could see them gleaming like a cat's.
"Times like these," Dean said at last in a low voice.
Seamus didn't understand him. He hated it when Dean was like that, speaking in riddles, making the Irish Gryffindor feel like a small child who was being ordered away from an important adult conversation.
"And what times are these?" Seamus shot back, irritated.
But Dean had already disappeared again, padding softly out the door and disappearing to his secret places.
Fifth year. He wrote to his mother again, faithfully. There was an odd new professor for Defence. Harry mumbled in his sleep a lot. Crazy nonsense about doors and the Ministry. Could Dean come over for Christmas break? How's Aunt Bessie's heart?
His mother wrote back almost immediately. The Ministry? Of course Harry would be talking about that. He's paranoid, a nutcase, they say. Thinks Voldemort's behind every corner. Making up shadows and silhouettes in his mind. Talks to Dumbledore too much, and we all know that old coot has long gone senile...
Seamus grew increasingly worried, sending concerned missives to his mother. He tried showing them to Dean.
"Harry's loopy, Mam says. Look."
Dean gave the letter a disinterested glance and added a beautiful charcoal curve to the Astronomy Tower, shielding his eyes against the midday sun. Seamus shook the letter impatiently.
"It's true. Read the Prophet? Him and Dumbledore," Seamus said nervously. "They talk all the time behind closed doors, if you know what I mean...secrets and schemes...the Ministry..."
Dean sketched in an owl flying low across the battlements of the ancient castle.
"They say he's gone crazy," Seamus went on. "He's going to raise a Muggle army, Mam says. The Prophet too, it says he's lying about everything to get attention, it's all gone to his head...I knew it all along...last year, I told you, remember?"
There was a long silence. Dean remained seated on the grassy bank of the lake, the charcoal slender and grainy in his steady hand. Seamus stood next to him.
"Why are you drawing the castle?" Seamus asked abruptly, giving up. Why couldn't Dean chat to him like a normal person, laugh over Harry's apparent craziness or make a joke of his ridiculous cries for attention?
But the artist remained still and silent, his head bent low, his fingers gently following the curve of the beautiful castle's walls.
"Because," Dean said after a long while, "soon it may cease to exist."
Seamus shivered under the dying sun.
"Come inside," he said. "It's cold out here and getting dark. Let's go inside where it's warm and safe."
Dean glanced up at him at last, his lips curving into a soft smile.
"One day you'll understand," he said and the two boys stood together for a moment. Seamus's letter rode the breeze across the lake and flew away into darkness, out of sight. Seamus watched as it disappeared into the dusk and did not speak.
Seamus and his mother had a fight during the summer holidays. His mother waved the latest Daily Prophet in his face, shouting and angry. Seamus stormed around, arguing hotly, throwing things angrily into his trunk. His owl screeched. His mother raged. Doors slammed, doors opened, voices shouted, voices whispered. In the end, they both sat at the breakfast table, his mother with an untouched cup of tea before her, him with a glass of water knocked over, the liquid slowly seeping towards the centre of the table where a newspaper lay, the heading large and gleeful.
Boy-Who-Lived Suffers Paranoid Delusions!
Harry Potter may be a danger to himself and others, Ministry Official warns.
He imagined the different scenes of him confronting Harry all the way to Hogwarts. He saw in the daydream Dean nodding in agreement, Neville patting him on the back. Even Ron would be standing beside him in apologetic agreement. Harry would rage around the place, maybe even try to curse him. Seamus would defend himself and the others would rush to help. Harry would be led away, perhaps mumbling gibberish or shouting crazily. People would shake their heads, thank their sandy-haired hero for finally speaking up.
But when Seamus arrived at the The Great Hall, he found Harry quietly eating and talking to his friends. He wasn't staring at people psychotically, shouting or talking to non-existent things, mumbling about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and conspiracy theories. Seamus was careful to ignore Harry during the Feast but by the time things had wound down and they were in the common room, the Irish boy's patience had snapped. Something must be done.
So he did something.
And he wasn't hailed a hero.
It came out all wrong. Instead of the grand and articulate speeches he had carefully planned during the long train journey, he just blurted out something about his mother's opinion, glaring challengingly at Harry. Harry shot something back about Seamus's mother and Ron stepped in and told Seamus to shut up. Seamus looked at the other boy. He'd grown up over summer, tall and lanky, and there was a fire in his blue eyes that Seamus didn't quite like the look of.
He had glanced around the room. Nobody would meet his eye. Harry just looked angry, Ron looked defiant, Hermione looked upset. And Dean...
Dean just gazed at Seamus with an unfathomable look in his eyes and Seamus felt blood rushing to his face. He turned on his heel and stormed away.
Later on Dean came back from wherever he had been, a sketchbook under one arm.
"Where have you been?" Seamus demanded grumpily. Dean just shrugged in his careless, one-shoulder way, his constant answer to that question. "Everyone's been tip-toeing around Harry," Seamus said tartly, changing the topic. "They're all afraid of him. Well, I'm not."
If he was expecting congratulations on his bravado, he received none. Dean looked at him with cool eyes. After a long while, Seamus realised the other boy was not going to talk.
"Did you draw anything tonight?" he asked, forcing his voice to be lighter, calmer. Dean didn't respond to anger or raised voices; they simply made him close up and disappear. Not to his physical places but somewhere in his mind where nobody could reach him.
"Yes," Dean said, handing over his sketchbook. An unexpected gift. Dean rarely invited people into his world, into his sketchbook. Seamus accepted it, surprised, and opened it to find a light pencil drawing of a boy, his eyes smudged with darkness, his mouth pale and worried, his face harried. He sat at a library desk, the candles casting long shadows across his face. One hand rubbed tiredly at his cheek and the other rested upon a heavy tome.
"Who is it?" Seamus asked curiously. The face seemed strangely familiar but somehow different and foreign.
"Draco Malfoy."
"It doesn't look like him," Seamus murmured, surprised. Dean's drawings, especially portraits, were always easily identifiable.
"Yes it does," Dean said softly. "You've just never seen him like that."
Yes, Seamus realised. He'd never seen Malfoy looking so tired, so unhappy, so...defeated.
"Did he see you drawing him?" Seamus asked. A stupid question. If Dean did not want to be seen then he would not be seen.
"No," Dean confirmed. "He's losing focus. He's not as alert as he should be. Letting his guard down."
"You sound like Mad-Eye," Seamus said absently. "Constant vigilance. In what sort of times are we living?"
"In times like these," Dean replied.
Harry kept an erratic schedule. He arrived late to bed some nights, looking tired but content. Suspicion stirred in Seamus's heart and he wrote to his mother.
Yes, she replied. Enclosed are copies of the Daily Prophet.
Seamus rifled through them.
Potter Acting On Dumbledore's Orders
Boy-Who-Lived 'Touched in Head', According to Top Healer
Is Dumbledore Training Potter In Dark Offence Tactics?
Potter Brainwashing Students For Anti-Ministry Alliance!
Seamus frowned.
"I think Harry's up to something," he said.
Dean started laughing. Seamus wanted to be annoyed but he couldn't. Dean laughed very little these days and Seamus enjoyed seeing his friend in these rare moments of happiness.
"What?" Seamus asked. "They say he's collecting students for a secret army. I personally haven't been approached by him, but -"
"I'm in it."
Seamus turned to his friend. "What?"
"I'm in his army. We've got to fight, Seamus."
"Fight what?"
"The darkness."
Seamus shivered and gathered his cloak around himself, despite the fact that a blazing fire warmed the Gryffindor tower.
"There is no darkness," Seamus said and even as he uttered those words they felt thin and insubstantial in the air, a tattered leaf blowing in a chilly Autumn breeze. Dean gazed at his friend with compassion.
"The Ministry doesn't want to believe it and neither do you," Dean said. "That's alright. One day you will see."
Later on Seamus lay awake in bed. His mother wrote letters, praising the Ministry, asking about that nice Dolores woman. Seamus, for the first time ever, did not know what to reply. What could he tell his gushing mother? Dolores Umbridge refused to let anyone practise magic. Dolores Umbridge talked strangely, about things he didn't understand but knew did not bode well. Dolores Umbridge punished Harry Potter for speaking up in class, and Seamus watched and all he wanted to do, in that exact moment, was tell Harry that he agreed with him.
But he dipped his quill into the inkwell and wrote lies. Umbridge is nice, I suppose. She seems a bit strict but alright.
And in the back of his mind burned the words: Ministry official. Professor Umbridge is a Ministry official and all she does is call Harry Potter a liar.
And I don't think she's right this time.
I don't think the Ministry is right this time.
Seamus watched Dean finishing the shading on a quick drawing he'd sketched earlier. Harry Potter was talking animatedly to a room full of people, their faces intense and determined.
"That his army?" Seamus asked.
"Yes," Dean says. "We need to defend ourselves. If Umbridge will not teach us then we will teach ourselves."
Seamus gazed at Dean's hand as he moved the charcoal swiftly over the parchment. In the flickering candlelight, the words shone from the back of his hand.
I Must Not Tell Lies.
"Can I learn?" he asked softly.
Dean smiled at him.
"Anyone can learn," he replied.
Seamus learned a lot that year. He learned to follow his instincts and not his parents. He learned to trust his friends and not their enemies. He learned how to swallow his pride. He learned how to cast a Patronus: a beautiful fox that was as stealthy as Dean. He learned how it felt to have a friend saving his life; the fateful day that Umbridge cornered them in the Room of Requirement, Seamus remembered fleeing down the corridor, his heart as heavy as lead, his throat raw with gasping air, the throbbing of blood in his ears. He heard the screams behind him and somebody grabbed him and swung him, with a strange gracefulness, into a little alcove. A tapestry fell over the alcove and Seamus closed his eyes.
After a moment, when he re-opened them, he saw Dean looking at him.
"We've been sold out," Dean said.
There was a long silence.
"It's beginning," Seamus said softly. Dean looked at him almost affectionately.
"You've learned a lot, my friend," he said.
Seventh year was when it finally descended. Madness. A slow descent into madness and chaos and hatred. Seamus returned to school alone. Ministry members and Dementors glided the Hogwarts Express, searching for Harry Potter. Public Enemy Number One. The eleven-year-old boy with messy black hair, small and quiet, shy and uncertain. Now his face lined the streets. People spat his name as though it was broken glass in their mouths.
Seamus could have told the Dementors and officials it was useless, searching the train. Empty compartments lined it, empty seats, empty baggage racks. So much emptiness and silence, so much. Seamus couldn't stand it. He found a compartment with Neville in it. Neville had a strange look in his eyes. It took Seamus just a second to recognise the blue fire of Ron Weasley three years ago, defending his best friend. The exact look was reflected in Neville's eyes now.
"It's so empty," whispered Seamus, and the words echoed around the compartment, drifted out into the corridors. Empty, empty, empty...
"No more Muggleborns," Neville said. "No more Half-bloods."
Seamus felt sick in his stomach, a physical queasiness. Ice settled over the train as the Dementors ghosted past, searching empty places, empty spaces where faces and footsteps lingered no longer.
"They should be searching Diagon Alley instead," Seamus murmured, his voice hoarse, "or London." Yes. Diagon Alley, where the mothers and fathers, crippled remnants of the Muggleborn generations, lined the streets with their faces desperate, scrabbling in the gutters, begging for food or a spare knut. The dungeons below the Ministry where children sat in cold rooms, their thin wrists shackled to metal chairs, bewildered in this new world of hate and power. Or perhaps St. Mungo's hospital where the Muggleborn families were turned away, denied medical assistance, their ravaged faces and cursed bodies pushed back into the streets.
Yes; why did the Dementors not search there, these places so abundant with the missing students, instead of drifting uselessly up and down this abandoned train?
Seamus turned his face to the window. Neville pretended not to notice his tears and the two boys sat in silence.
In Seamus's hand, Dean's sketchbook remained tightly rolled up.
And Seamus fought.
That school year, he fought. Don't be afraid, he told himself. His mother wrote letters, begging for him to do the right thing, to stand by the Ministry. But Seamus knew about the metal bones. Yes, he knew about the metal bones piled up in the Ministry, the great iron chair of a Pureblood set upon them.
And he would never stand by a government which would desecrate the remains of his friends, his teachers and classmates and neighbours and relatives, a government which saw them as nothing but bones and ashes, to be crushed under the great iron fist of authority. He saw the faces of those he loved; they saw the nameless thousands that required culling.
And so Seamus Finnigan fought.
The Battle came. Seamus was there. He did not leave. He heard rumours that Harry Potter was back at Hogwarts, prepared to fight to the death, to fight the oppression, to put right the wrongs. He did not know whether to stay or flee, flee for the sake of his desperate mother. And then he saw Ron Weasley hurrying towards him on the third floor, with Hermione Granger racing in front of him. They looked so different, worlds away from him. He had spent the year suffering detentions, suffering the vindictive Carrows and the vicious, power-drunk Slytherins, but something told him they had suffered worse.
"Hermione!" he called out, his voice light and lilting. Her name trembled through the air, a determined but unsteady arrow. A friend's name, he realised. He had not spoken a friend's name for so long.
She paused, drawing her wand, then saw him.
"Oh God, Seamus," she said, and how strange it sounded, somebody saying God. Only Muggles said God. Only Muggles had such things as gods. Wizards had nothing but logic and the science of magic. They had nobody to pray to, no heaven waiting for them. And yet they lived whilst the faithful thousands died.
"Dean," he said and he was surprised at himself, surprised at his first words to her. Not is Harry Potter really here? Or, will you save us all? But Dean. It was Dean's fate that he held as most important in his mind.
"I can't really talk," Hermione said breathlessly, already picking up pace.
"But Dean -"
"Seamus, this is really important. This is bigger than you or me or Dean," Hermione said urgently and she was running again. The boy stood alone in the corridor, noticing that Hermione held Ron's hand, and in her other hand she tightly gripped a basilisk's fang.
He stood for a moment, seeing Dean's face in his mind's eye. Mouthing words.
Times like these.
Times like these, things are bigger than you or me...
Dean had known all along. Times like these, when you have to live by your rules or die by somebody else's. Times like these, when you fight and die or live and regret.
And there was his answer. He would not flee. His mother would despise him, but this was bigger than her. It was bigger than him.
He took out his wand.
And he went to war.
It was a strange experience, the battle. Sometimes it felt like he was living a dream and it was somebody else dueling with Death-Eaters, saving lives. He saw faces filling his vision in strange flashes, like somebody switching a light on and off, switching his memory on and off. Luna Lovegood, her lovely blonde hair drenched in red. Neville Longbottom, his face filled with white-hot rage, fearless rage, blood flowing from his lips like wine. Draco Malfoy, looking up at him from the ground. Seamus remembered extending a hand to him, helping him up. Malfoy didn't even bother thanking him, just fled, but that was okay. Seamus was seeing, in his mind, a picture of Draco Malfoy bent low over a heavy textbook, his face filled with weariness and despair.
And at the end of it all, there was Dean, looking into Seamus's face and smiling.
"Who knew we'd grow up to be soldiers?" Dean asked. Seamus couldn't speak, momentarily blinded by the relief, dizzy with finding his best friend alive and alright. "Both of us, soldiers," Dean said. Rain spattered across his face, diluting the blood, turning it into a lovely pink like an early spring rose or the first colours of sunset.
"Times like these," Seamus murmured and in the middle of the raging war they embraced momentarily.
After two or three seconds – an eternity, in Seamus's world – they fell to the ground together, Dean dragging Seamus down, their bodies tangling ungracefully, and Seamus managed to wrench himself away. He saw Dean's eyes, still open, his body heavy and limp, his limbs falling away from Seamus, ending the awkward embrace of the dead and the living.
Seamus lay for a moment, and his mind was blank except for the words times like these, times like these going round his head like a children's carousel.
He got to his feet, dry-eyed, and raised his wand, and didn't look back.