Don't be stupid, it all belongs to Jo. Le DUH
But this story is… well it's gunna get heavy.
I knew him since grade school. I remember in second grade he'd climb over the fence every day, and we'd climb the tree and talk about nothing at all.
I'd tell the girls at school, and they'd squeak and be all atwitter over it. Boys were, as I was reminded countless times by the girls, Icky.
When he told me about his magic, I just smiled a knowing smile and hugged him: at eleven we'd grown up.
I always knew he was special.
He said he'd go away to magic school and would be away for the school year. Bottom line: my best friend, the boy-next-door would not be clambering over my fence anymore.
It was then I realized I was in love with Seamus Finnegan.
He came home over the holidays, of course. But it wasn't the same.
He'd do magic, and bring moving photos, tell me stories about extraordinary spells and enchantments, heroes, villains, teachers, students, friends, family, animals, and magic.
I was fascinated by it all, even though I really had no idea what he was talking about.
Of course, in turn, he listened to my stories about Private Girls School my mother had sent me to in England after my father got a promotion and we moved just outside of London. I missed Ireland more than he did, but I liked being in closer proximity than I had been when I lived at home. We kept our house in Ireland, and went back there for holidays.
We traded letters as discreetly as possible – I'd go to the edge of the grounds during lunch breaks (my mother was deathly afraid of birds, and at least in the trees, owls were common). We'd write pages and pages per week. Sometimes he'd tell me about his Transfiguration class, sometimes I'd tell him about home economics class. Sometimes we'd just trade gossip and memories, and sometimes we'd make plans for the holidays. He was the best thing for a teenaged girl in an all girls private school. Not a boyfriend (though sometimes I couldn't help but dream), but a guy friend.
It was a long weekend in November, and we had returned to Ireland for a week for my grandmother's birthday and my parent's anniversary. I was to turn eighteen that December. I was home alone after my parents had gone out to dinner. They tried to get me to accompany them, but I'd much rather stay home than watch my parents dance all evening. There was an alarmed knock at the door. I hurried to answer it. Who should I find, standing on the doorstep, covered in bruises, both old and new, but my next door neighbor.
"Seamus!" I cried, throwing my arms around his neck.
"Corrine!" he replied, returning my embrace with just as much fervor.
"It's so good to see you! What are you doing home?" I asked, tears welling in my eyes. It was so wonderful to see him again.
"Corrine, you have to get out," he told me. "They'll be here. The Death Eaters. I told you about them, do you remember? They know I told you about my magic. They'll be here, and they'll want to kill you."
I was thrown. Death Eaters? The Gothic creatures that swept the land, killing anyone who crossed their paths, torturing for fun, and worshipping a man who had cheated death – a man who killed people so he might rise to an ultimate power, using his evil reign over his subjects, and who demanded supreme control of the world, with a ratio of one to one: dead to enslaved.
"Don't soften your words on me, old friend," I whispered.
"I'm sorry. This is my fault," he replied, also whispering, not meeting my eyes.
I lifted his chin to find that his eyes, too, were swimming. I shook my head. "I wanted to know, I pressed for information," I whispered. "It's as much my fault."
"We must get you out of here," he told me.
"What of my parents?"
"Arrangements are being arranged, but you must come with me to Hogwarts," he commanded.
"What of my parents, Seamus?" I asked again.
"There is someone going to inform them, and they will be moved. Once it is clear you've left, your parents will be safe, as they don't have your distinct DNA. Don't ask - it's a personal thing, not a hereditary thing."
"Seamus, this is my life. I can't just uproot and leave!" I protested.
"You must, or you'll be killed," he told me gravely. I nodded my eventual agreement and showed him inside so I could go upstairs and pack the few things I would need.
Gradually, over the course of six weeks or so, we made our way across the country side from Ireland to London, sleeping in stingy motels or on the side of the road: no one could know who we were. Not even 'Muggles', I think he called us. Non magic folk.
For all that we ate terrible food, slept in terrible rooms, traveled in terrible conditions and I developed a terrible cough (which was cured by some of Seamus' magic), we had a great time. Letters can only convey so much.
He told me even more about Hogwarts, about his friends and things I would need to know once we arrived. We came up with cover stories and secret questions and answers to ask one another, and calls incase we were to come across the zombie like creatures that were essentially controlled by the government, or the government enforcement agents – and Death Eaters.
I told him about my parents, and he listened to my stories with soothing words. My family might not survive because of me. He understood.
Fugitives from the law, ill, cold, dirty and smelly, I was so at home. Seamus was there. We shared the large blanket we'd salvaged from the ruins of a house, and slept close together for the warmth and body heat.
Sometimes he'd move about in his sleep, thrashing, and muttering largely incoherent things, often involving 'Carrows' or 'Dean' or 'Harry'. His thrashing was worse when he was whispering my name, and more often than not, after his night terrors, he'd wake up with a splitting headache. The best I could do was attempt to sooth him. Occasionally I would sing lullabies his mother had sung to us as children – I knew them so well, I threw the Irish accent for him. I held his hand and moved closer as I sang, and this eased the thrashing and muttering for a time. But in an hours time, he would be thrashing again. It happened about once a fortnight. Three or four in each night, then the next two weeks would be perfectly peaceful sleep.
I did not have such nightmares.
Mine consisted of the horror stories that he had told me – why we had to be so careful. My nightmares came nightly, but nothing of my terrifying sleep was conveyed, so I'm told.
As the time went on, though, and Seamus and I slept closer and closer together, they eased, also. The first night I slept in his arms, and he kissed my forehead goodnight, I dreamt of a large, grand castle, with brightly lit halls and huge stairways. I relayed this dream to Seamus, and he smiled, revealing that I was dreaming of Hogwarts.
Upon arrival, I recognised the castle before Seamus. However decrepit it seemed now – vines hanging off walls, some windows smashed through, and two large boulders at the entrance to what Seamus told me was the Quidditch Pitch, I recognised the castle from my dream.
We could linger at the castle for only a short time, though, and Seamus and I hurried down to Hogsmeade. It was still daylight – maybe four o clock? My watch had stopped working the night we had spent in the snow.
But it was safe to enter the small settlement – disguised, of course. Seamus was on the list of forbidden individuals to have within the confines of Hogwarts and Hogsmeade after his latest prank which had lead him to the Room of Requirement.
Aberforth was so wonderful to us. He smiled as we entered his pub, and insisted on buying us a drink. After an amazing tankard of the amazing substance butterbeer, we made our way into Hogwarts, to the Room of Requirement.
The Room was incredible. There were about sixty portraits in the room, and from Seamus's description of the magical properties of the school, I knew them to be doors to other rooms. Each had a label over the top of it, and I searched the room for a portrait of a tall, lanky man who held a small Jack Russell Terrier – Seamus's room. There was a portrait much larger than the others – this one was even more magical than the rest. Seamus had explained it to me – each person who died for the cause – from the Order of the Phoenix, from their own little gathering, and those who had died for their families – an image of them appeared in the portrait. Corrine knew she would have to examine it better in the future.
In the centre of the large room, there was a long table with about fifty seats. At what was clearly the head of the table, there were plans of what could only be Hogwarts or Gringotts, and along the table, there were more photos, plans and random pieces of paper.
In the room itself, there were plenty of soft, comfortable couches. Over to the right, there was a games area, and everywhere, there were students milling around us.