9. Whisper
This was Harry they were talking about. His friend Harry. Best-mates-with-a-Muggleborn-and-blood-traitor Harry, saved-the-school Harry, defeated-You-Know-Who Harry. When Dean rolled his eyes at Ernie Macmillan, Seamus scoffed too.
But falling asleep with Harry just feet away felt like a risk he couldn't take.
He didn't feel safe. Or, well, he didn't feel like Dean was safe, which he supposed was different but felt kind of the same. Even though it was Harry, there was a chance, wasn't there, that the weird coincidences meant something and the rumors were true. That was enough to keep him awake at night.
When stories of things that crept and killed used to scare him, his Mam would tuck him in beside her. "This way if anything tries to get you while you're sleeping," she said, "I'm right here and I'll feel it too. And I'll protect you." He would sleep with her arms around him and his head on her pillow.
Dean had closed his curtains. Seamus rolled over to look, his imagination grabbing at his worries and running with them. Behind that drape of cloth Dean could be scared too. Or he could be stone solid like Justin and Colin and Mrs. Norris. Or he could be dead. If he just moved over that three feet, Seamus thought, he could sleep with his head on Dean's pillow, and maybe rest easy.
He was twelve years old now and too old for that shit. He couldn't slip into his parents' bed anymore, he knew better than to touch Dean.
He tried to reassure himself. They'd lived with Harry a year and a half already and nothing bad had happened. He slept here every night and drifted off fine, Dean always woke up fine. But still he kicked around, tossed and turned. There was nothing like that physical touch, his body nestled against someone else's, to calm him.
