A/N: Ok, so it took a while. Again. If anyone is still reading, I'm sorry. I won't abandon this, no matter how long it seems to take for an update.
It wasn't the same. Sure, he'd made it to November; sure, he was adjusting to his classes and to spending most of his free time with Ginny and Hermione; sure, things had even settled into a new normal. Still. Dean found himself looking around every so often to see Seamus's reaction to what was a professor was saying or to what one of the Quidditch teams had just done. Then it was always that same hollow feeling when he didn't find him there. He wondered if it would ever feel normal without him.
He did try to remember that he only had a few more months to go before he wouldn't have to think about it anymore. It almost worked, even ... until he remembered what was happening back at the Finnigans' house. The problem was that he didn't really know. He'd owled Shay a few times a week since he'd been back at Hogwarts, and he'd gotten responses to all of his letters, but they were brief and to the point. And the point was clear. Seamus either didn't have much to say, or he didn't want to say it to Dean. Whatever the reason, Dean was going crazy wondering what, exactly, was wrong with his friend. Whenever he broached the topic with Ginny, though, she got the same pained look in her eyes, and she changed the subject. He'd finally given up on trying to get any information out of her, but he knew he'd need to find out sooner rather than later. Seamus needed help. That much he did know.
Dean wasn't the only one who recognized how much help Shay needed. Seamus knew it, too. The day Dean had left for Hogwarts was one of the worst days Seamus had had in a long time. When he left Platform 9 3/4, he'd rushed home and refused to speak to his parents even though he was aware of the concern on their faces. He'd apparated into the front yard, and they'd come out to the living room when the door opened. Seamus could see from the looks on their faces just how awful he must have looked. But he knew that if he'd tried to speak, the lump in his throat would dissolve, and he might have ended up telling them all sorts of things he was never going to tell anyone. So he'd just rushed past them to his room, slamming the door and refusing to speak to either of them until he'd managed to calm down.
He didn't even understand why he'd needed to calm down, though. He wasn't sorry not to be going back to Hogwarts. Not at all. He couldn't even think of Hogwarts without feeling ill. But the thought of deliberately separating from his best friend when last year's forced separation had been such a wrenching thing ... No. It was horrible, and it was unnatural and it was ... well ... it was all of the words he'd have used to describe last year if he ever were to talk about it (which he wasn't.) So he decided to distract himself.
The months passed quickly - more quickly for him, he knew, than for Dean. He knew that from the letters he was getting with unsurprising regularity every couple of days. He wasn't sure how to answer them, though. Seamus's days were filled with arguing with his parents over what he should be doing and whether he should be trying to get a job and where he was going when he disappeared for hours at a time. But he wasn't about to tell Dean about that either.
He'd been wandering around one day, wondering if maybe should get a job, when he'd seen a pub that he just kind of stumbled into. When he stepped inside, though, he realized this wasn't just a regular group of men sitting around of an afternoon, trying to drown their troubles. There was some sort of meeting going on, and it was too late for him to back out the door once they'd noticed him and motioned with grim faces for him to take a seat. So he had. And it hadn't taken long for him to realize that this was the IRA - that political group his father would sometimes growl about at meals whenever his mother wasn't quick enough to change the subject.
Seamus knew he shouldn't stay. He knew that if his parents got an inkling that he'd even spoken to one of these men, he'd be in an argument, the likes of which he hadn't seen in years. But he couldn't seem to bring himself to tune out what they were saying because - well - it made sense. All the talk of revenge and justice and rights - it was what he'd been dreaming of for the past 15 months - since he'd gone back for his last year at Hogwarts. And even though these men didn't know about magic (as far as Seamus could tell) - they did know about what it was like to suffer. They knew about being forced to live in a world that didn't take them into account at all. And for the first time, Seamus felt like he finally fit in somewhere again.
His parents weren't as oblivious as he wanted them to be, though. After the third consecutive Monday that he'd disappeared and then returned at the same time, Mrs. Finnigan finally admitted that there was a pattern to these disappearances. When she mentioned this to her husband, he'd raised his eyebrows but agreed to trail Seamus the following week. He did not like what he saw.
Seamus walked back into his house after that meeting, the blood roaring in his ears. He'd learned so much that he hadn't known, and he knew that whether he was prepared or not, he was in this for better or for worse. He hardly noticed his father sitting on the couch with an extremely grim look on his face. He'd almost walked right by him when his father's unusually serious voice arrested him in his tracks.
"Seamus, we need to talk. Have a seat."
Seamus turned slowly, his steps slowing even as his heart rate quickened. One look at his father's face told him that he knew more than Seamus would have liked, and he didn't know whether or not to be honest or to be angry that somehow, his parents had discovered what he was up to. He settled on anger.
He folded his arms across his chest and looked at his father defiantly.
"What is it," he asked, ignoring the directive to sit. But his father looked pointedly at him and wouldn't say another word. Finally, Seamus sighed impatiently and sat on the edge of the chair facing the couch. He didn't speak again. After a few minutes, Mr. Finnigan said tightly, "I saw where you went today. I was - I was walking by, and I recognized that pub. Seamus..."
But his son wouldn't let him say another word.
"You were just walking by," he asked mockingly, his words expressing his disbelief that his father thought he would believe this. But Mr. Finnigan didn't react to his tone - though a very small part of Seamus's brain knew he had every right to be angry with the blatant disrespect Shay was suddenly exhibiting. Seamus took courage in his father's silence and went on, the righteous indignation once again taking control of his words. "You expect me to believe that? You were following me, Dad. At least be honest with me. Don't I deserve honesty?"
Mr. Finnigan took the bait much as he wished he could hold himself back.
"Don't you deserve honesty? You've been sneaking around behind your mother and my back, going precisely where you know I want you to avoid, and you deserve honesty?"
Seamus felt his face heating up, but he couldn't seem to stop himself from rising to his feet, his hands balled in fists.
"At least they have the right idea," he shouted, hardly aware of what he was saying. "At least they fight. At least they don't let other people control them and tell them what to do and grab..." he choked on his words then, suddenly aware of the fact that he'd been about to say too much. Whirling around, he raced up the stairs and into his room, slamming the door behind him and muttering a spell to lock and seal it tightly. He didn't really expect his father to follow him, but he wasn't taking any chances. He was shaking as he sank onto his bed, and he suddenly realized that if there were ever a good time to write to Dean, this would be it. Summoning paper and a quill, he bunched his pillows behind him and began to write.
Dear Dean,
I swear, sometimes I think my parents have lost what little is left of their minds. I've been sitting here for months, and all they do is nag at me to go find a job or do something productive. I finally start going out, and then they complain. And my father's the worst. He and I just got into a shouting match because now that I'm going out, he doesn't like where I'm going? You're so lucky that you don't have to deal with this. And even when you go home, your parents don't bother you this much because they can focus on your sisters. Looking forward to seeing you soon, mate. Are you coming here for Christmas or going to your parents? Have you been home yet? You haven't said. Hope you come here for at least a little while.
Shay
Dean sat in the Gryffindor common room, staring into the fire, the letter in his hands. He was unaware that the paper was trembling, unaware that his hands were shaking noticeably enough to get Hermione's attention, to get her to glance meaningfully at Ginny and gesture in his direction. All he could think was that he should be glad that Seamus wrote him, glad that he'd shared something more than the weather report or the latest football scores. But he wasn't.
The words kept replaying in his mind. You're so lucky that you don't have to deal with this. Dean's lips twisted in a bitter grimace. Lucky? He didn't feel lucky - not at all. He felt cheated. He felt confused. And - well - as much as he hated to admit this because of how ridiculous it even felt to think it - he felt jealous. It was the second time he could remember feeling jealous of his best mate, and he hated it. And both times had to do with the same thing. Dean could still feel the pit in his stomach as he'd watch the Finnigan Family Reunion, as he'd come to think of that moment when Seamus and he had found them at last, but he knew that wasn't fair. And this wasn't fair either. It was also silly. How could he be jealous of a fight that Seamus had with his father.
Before he could let his thoughts travel any further down that twisted path, he became aware of a presence beside him on the couch. He looked up with a start but wasn't surprised to find Ginny sitting there, Hermione a few feet away on the chair. They were both looking at him with concern, but he tried to force a smile.
"I'm all right," he tried to say lightly, but his voice belied his words. Neither girl spoke, and Dean held the letter aloft, saying, "Shay and his dad got into an argument. He - he wrote. I just feel bad about it is all."
Nothing could have been clearer to Hermione or Ginny that there was so much that Dean wasn't saying.
Hermione suddenly yawned - very theatrically, Ginny thought, trying not to roll her eyes. "I think I'm going to go up to bed," she said quietly. She gave Dean a studied look as she stood, but then she smiled. "I'll see you when you come up, Gin." And without waiting for a response from either of the other two, she ascended the stairs.
Once they were alone, there was silence for a long while. Ginny knew there was a lot Dean was trying not to say, but she also knew that if she sat there long enough and waited, he would say it. Like it or not, she knew that he really had no one else to confide in now that he was at Hogwarts without Seamus and even without Ron or Harry or Neville. As much as he might have wished he could keep everything to himself, she knew him better than that. So she waited.
"It's just - he wants to know if I'm going home for Christmas. And - and I don't know. And he got into a fight with his father, and ..." Here he trailed off. He still hadn't looked up, but now he did, and Ginny was watching him, her brow wrinkled in confusion.
"Why - why wouldn't you go home?" she asked, and Dean looked back down. Of course she would pick up on the one part he wasn't even sure he wanted to discuss. He stared at the letter for a moment before sighing. He looked back up at a spot over Ginny's left shoulder, and his voice was surprisingly steady as he began to recount the events of the night he'd left home.
"So he's not even my father," he concluded, "and Katherine and Charlotte aren't... they aren't really..." but suddenly his voice wasn't quite as steady, and he sighed again, leaving the sentence unfinished. But when he finally managed to bring himself to look Ginny in the eye, he was surprised to see the determination in hers.
"He's not your father?" she asked, her voice quiet but firm.
Dean started to shake his head, but Ginny reached out and took his hand, and he stopped and looked at her.
"He is," she said insistently. "In all the ways that count, Dean, he is. He loves you. You know that. And if you hadn't found that photo, then you'd never have questioned any of this. That has to tell you something, doesn't it?"
Dean stared at her. "It should," he said slowly. "And I know that's true. But... Ginny. My mother lied to me. She's been lying to me for years. How - how am I supposed to trust her again? How am I supposed to go home and see her and see him and know that he's not - he isn't." His voice cracked, and he looked away, but Ginny squeezed his hand.
"You just do," she said simply. She looked into the fire as Dean's grip on her hand tightened, and she didn't look back until she heard him clear his throat. His eyes were glistening, but he forced a smile.
"Thanks, Gin," he said hoarsely, and she nodded, standing and smoothing her hands over her jeans. After a moment, she looked at Dean, but he was staring into the fire again.
"I know you're also worried about Seamus," she said slowly, "and I don't blame you. But... let his parents worry about him for a little while. Maybe - maybe it's time for you to figure some of your own stuff out right now?"
Without waiting for a response, she turned and climbed the spiral staircase, leaving Dean staring after her. And then he looked back at the letter from Seamus. Maybe Ginny was right. Maybe he did need to help himself before he could help Seamus... but part of him couldn't help but worry. Where was Shay going that had his parents so angry? Somehow, he knew that this wasn't as minor as Seamus wanted him to believe.
