Dean hadn't recovered. It was obvious, Seamus thought; Dean's characteristics were different, his movements more hesitant. The only visible difference to anyone besides his best mate was, perhaps, the subtle purple edging its way around his eyes. Other than that, everyone else seemed to think he was fine. That he was better. But Seamus knew. Seamus knew whenever he look across the table during breakfast, or lunch, or dinner; he knew whenever they sat next to each other in classes and Dean would only grin slightly whereas he used to laugh; he knew when Dean would wake in the middle of the night, sweat gathered on his brow, with his breaths loud and uneven. Seamus knew, and yet he could do nothing.

He had tried, on several occasions, to get Dean to confide in him. The first time was in the common-room, the weekend following the event, when Seamus had first noticed Dean's new habits. His squeezing into the corner of the couch the moment Seamus sat, his blatant lies, his fake expressions. Seamus could so easily see them forming right in front of his eyes, and it had been hard to not be blunt when asking.

"You all right?"

Simple. Calm. Collected.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

Liar.

"You sure?"

Talk to me.

"Certain, mate."

The second was while they walked to lunch, the week following, and Dean looked even worse. There was something different in his eyes, Seamus noted, listening to their footsteps with pursed lips. He looked almost ill. He lacked his usual glow, he barely ever smiled, he was stiff at the slightest of contact and he seemed to have crawled into some form of shell. So when Seamus asked, once more, "You all right, Dean?", Dean only looked at him.

"Of course I am."

Pause.

"And you're sure?"

"Completely."

The third and final time was in the middle of the night, a week after, when Seamus' eyes had snapped open to hear Dean moving in the bed opposite him. Even in the darkness, Seamus could see the panic-stricken expression etched across his best mate's face, could see his slender fingers clasping the space around him, could see him bury his head in his hands and shake his head profusely.

"Dean? You O.K?"

"What? Oh, Seamus... I - yeah. I'm fine."

Seamus hadn't bothered asking if he was sure, certain that the response he'd get would be no different from the rest. Yet he hadn't slept that night. He only listened to Dean's uneven breathing, listened to his quiet, incoherrent murmurs, to the gentle movement of his sheets when he turned. From that point, Seamus was convinced. Dean didn't trust him. There was something gnawing at his best mate from the inside, and yet he could do nothing. Dean had put up walls around him.

And he knew he shouldn't have disturbed that. He knew that, when Dean had closed the shutters, he should respect the decision and should just wait. But Dean didn't trust him. Had Dean ever trusted him? Seamus had told him everything there was to know about himself; why his boggart was a banshee, why he always double-tied his shoes, why he liked to sleep with the window open, why always slept with three pillows on his bed. And yet Dean never told him anything. Dean didn't trust him. And that made his stomach twinge with irritation.

Seamus found Dean sitting in the dorm-room, tugging his shoelaces. "Anything you're not telling me?" Seamus said quickly, and Dean jumped before turning to face him.

"What d'you mean?"

Dean's eyes were lined with purple. His cheek-bones were prominent. He kept his movements limited and his conversations short. He barely ever smiled. Three weeks and two days, and Seamus knew.

"What do you think?" Seamus snapped. "I know, Dean. I know you're avoiding the problem. Have you seen yourself lately? You're a wreck, you are. Do you think I didn't notice? Do you think I'm stupid?"

"W-What? No, of course not. Shay, I don't know what you're talking about." Dean's brow furrowed. "And I don't have a problem."

"Yes, you do. And you're avoiding it right now!" Seamus' voice rose and he tugged at his tie, his thin lips tight in a scowl. "You never tell me anything, you know? Best mates since first year, and nothing. I don't know anything about you!"

"I never tell you anything? What are you talking about? What's gotten into you?" Dean asked, frowning. "You're a fucking arsehole, you know that?""

"You're a prat! I - I don't even know who you are!"

"How do you not know who I am? I tell you loads of things, and the one time I want to keep something to myself, you go ballistic!"

"You keep everything to yourself!"

"Well you're always ballistic!"

"Well - well you're a berk!"

"Eejit!"

"Git!"

"You frustrate me to no end, you know? Why don't you just do me a favour and get out?" Seamus noted how Dean balled his fists at his side while he spoke.

"Fine!" Seamus said. "Fine. Just fine. I don't care. Whatever."

He left with his heart in his throat, with guilt churning his stomach. He shouldn't have done that. Shouldn't have yelled. When Dean put the barriers up, it was best to leave him. It was best to wait it out until he was ready. But Seamus was impatient, and Dean was a slow healer, and Seamus knew and yet he couldn't help himself.