for hg competition,
an au in which a muggleborn dean doesn't ever go to hogwarts
as far as childhood homes go, seamus' attic isn't a bad one. they drag a bean bag chair up there and somewhere in the hurricane blown mess of his room, seamus locates a box of sixty four crayola crayons for dean.
this is where dean learns to love art. he is enchanted by the colors of the crayons, which are more vivid, he feels, then any he's ever seen before. the promise of being able to construct entire universes, simply through lines and shapes on thin white papers draws him in.
as time passes, the attic walls fill with sketches. the two have a system by now. seamus draws while dean imagines. one day they crook pinkies and promise that the castles they have built in the air for their futures will one day solidify into truth. seamus will build worlds and dean will spin tales and stories will be made and published. stories so fantastical and lucrative that they will have enough money to eat ice cream every single night for diner if they want.
dust mites float down around the yellowing papers sliding off the wall. as far as they're both concerned, they've outgrown the attic. they have started primary school, played football, rode their bikes, made other friends. somehow though, it seemed like the only place for seamus to take dean to, for a good old fashioned pinky promise. the creaky room they are now standing in hasn't heard a good story in a long while.
that's what dean thinks seamus is telling him at first. just another layer of words, each twining around the next to fill another tale. "you have to pinky promise you won't tell anything i'm saying right now. you know, just like we did when we were five." then seamus begins to explain what is worth taking a vow of secrecy to protect. "a letter… a school… a wizard named dumbledore… it's a boarding school, by the way." dean is passively listening but suddenly he snaps, a rubber band stretched until it snaps.
"you had your little joke, your go at me and now be quiet seam. you're staying right here and blocking my footie goals and I'm coming over to your house for tea on wednesdays. you're still going to live three doors down and idiot, there is no such thing as magic."
(dean's feet slapping the wooden staircase can't completely conceal the sound of tearing paper and soft cries that drift down from the attic.)
it doesn't seem fair that in one day of holidays, dean can both lose his best friend all over again, and find out that magic is real in the worst sense of the word. then again, as adults are fond of reminding him, very few things in life are fair.
seamus is back from boarding school for summer break, taller and more self-assured somehow. his grin is still the same, though, and it shines across his face as dean swings open his door to let him in.
as usual, seamus does most of the talking. the problem is that there is no space for dean to illustrate, just like there should be. when dean interjects quietly, adding in questions and illuminations and clarifications, seamus rebuffs them. "no, don't be daft. spells don't rhyme, they're in latin."
dean waits quietly for the best friend he knows to return. they're a team; and shouldn't seamus need him as much as he still needs seamus?
after a quiet request that in this new world of hogwarts they're figuring out, the mail should be carried by dragon instead of owl (much more majestic), seamus turns on him. "magic isn't just this, like, world that you imagine while playing make believe in your attic. it is the way it is and you can't change it. just like our world, only, you know, with spells and wizards and loads of other stuff."
seamus cannot, for the life of him, understand why dean starts sobbing at this. it's just a fact of the wizarding world, and anyway, they've grown now. too old to be upset when make believe turns out to be only fantasies and nothing more.
dean can't completely explain the tears to himself, either.
they have to do with a persistent childhood belief he can't seem to let go of, in a magic that holds promise. a magic where people can fly and boys can dream and dragons can be mailmen if they want to. magic should be everywhere. it should sprout in the garden next door, maybe in the clouds if you feels like it putting it there.
magic is an escape from reality. in magic, conflicts don't have to be real. there are no yelling mothers, no constantly disappointed fathers, no sisters who are always out too late at night. there are no textbooks and latin and detention in magic like seamus thinks there are. most of all, magic is a place with room for two, but "real magic" seems to have no space for dean.
as far as violating a severe law for the first time goes, there are probably a million more worthwhile ways to do it then to break and enter into your former best friends attic. dean doesn't really care.
he's there on a mission. forcing the window open, and leaning out of his precarious perch on a tree nearby, he sticks his hand inside and drops something to the floor.
it's a book.
inside are pictures. somewhere buried in the pictures is still the work of a five year old, using crayons for the very first time. they've been bound into a a real hardcover, published with the help of his art professor in college, who had seen great potential in him. dean has come to look up at him as the father figure he never had.
of course, the publisher and professor all want sentences, a story, to accompany the pictures. one of his friends even offers to write the words. "the pictures work better alone," dean insists.
the only person who could ever fill his pages with letters is somewhere in london, casting incantations, now renting a flat with some boarding school friends. dean knows all this about his life from seamus' younger brother. he hasn't actually talked to seamus since god-knows-when.
the first copy of his book has now been distributed. he should go out an celebrate with friends. break into his royalty check to splurge on a carton of ice cream, maybe.
his stomach hurts too much, though.
the ghosts of words unwritten and of magic undiscovered haunt him.
"listen: there's a hell of a good universe next door; let's go"
-e.e. cummings
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