Three years before the Battle, May 1995.

"You're a friking genius, that's what you are."

Dean rolls his eyes. "I've just practiced, that's all."

"A modern time Picasso."

"Hardly."

"Vermeer."

"How do you even know Vermeer?"

"I amn't dumb!"

"No, but you did just compare my drawing of the giant squid to Picasso."

"There's lake and trees and stuff too."

"And a giant squid."

"It's good, mate. Really."

Dean gave him a shy smile. Seamus had learned fast that he was not good with compliments, all the way back in their first year.

That's why Seamus had made his life's mission to give him as many as possible.

The tournament was over, and everything had gone back to as normal as possible, and people did try their best to find joy in the little things. Some played Quidditch or the Exploding Snap with newfound fervour. Others swam in the lake until their skin was wrinkled, went to bathe in the sun for a while and repeated this until sundown. Others sat in the shade and looked at their pretty best friends and their pretty drawings and made a few occasional quips to not make it weird and both pretended that it worked.

"Do you have anything else I haven't seen yet?" Seamus asked.

Dean moved right next to him, radiating heat on the already warm spring day. He could've just as easily passed his sketchbook over, but he never did. Seamus was long ago gotten used to the casual touches, head on his shoulder, the brushing fingers under the table, a steadying hand on his back after that one time in the second year after Seamus tripped at the portrait door. He doubted if Dean even realized any of this, or if he'd seen any of curious glances directed at them, but Seamus didn't have the heart to say anything. Happy Dean was the best Dean. And Seamus knew that nothing made Dean happier than happy Seamus.

"Did I show you the ones I draw during the holidays? Wait, they're somewhere here – "

Seamus Finnigan cast the Patronus charm three times during his lifetime, always using the same memory. His back against a tree trunk. Hot cheeks and hot spring sun bringing out his freckles. The smell of cheap shampoo as Dean leaned over. Cold fingers laid on top of his, going through the pages slower than was probably necessary. Gentle words whispered in secret. A drawing of two best friends on an adventure somewhere in Ireland, riding too-small bikes against the yellow fields and cloudless sky.

The morning rays hit his eyes as he cycled the silent road, not another soul in sight. The village was straight from an idyllic postcard, even if half the houses had been abandoned for better job opportunities in the big cities and the remaining population consists of mostly the elderly, their children who feel too guilty to leave, and the few youngsters resentful for their parents for making them stay in the dying village.

Then there's him.

He could see some open curtains, even though it was only a Saturday morning and any decent folk should still be sleeping. Not him, though. He had a mission. Not an important one, but he was a man of his word, and if he had promised to get her parcel to Miss Knight at 9 AM Saturday morning, then that's what he would do.

He did not expect was a letter for himself. But there it was, his name written in cursive that he did not recognize, but he could not think of a single person who would want to have anything to do with him. Instead of opening it he stashed it inside his jacket and tried to ignore the matter entirely. He had had no letters besides bills for years and he did not want one now.

Miss Knight was there to wait for him, her fat tabby cat glaring at him by her side. She was taller than him, with a cloud of curly white hair, a wide smile, and a loud voice. Her bright yellow morning gown, a hideous sight by all accounts, was a gift from her late husband and resembled a shabbily made patchwork quilt rather than any actual garment.

Seamus had never had a grandma of his own, but he is still pretty sure that his Miss Knight is tons better than most people's nanas.

She greets him with a raucous "Good morning, love" and a peck on the cheek. She clicked her tongue at his messy hair and by the time Louie brushed against his shin, Seamus had completely forgotten about his own letter.

"It's from Martin," she explains to him as he hands her the package. He knew that, of course, as her son had dutifully written the sender's name on the package. The said son never actually bothered to send himself to his mother's tiny village, or at least that miracle hadn't happened once during the time Seamus had lived there. Miss Knight's smile reached all the way to her eyes when she looked at the package and held it near like a treasure to her chest, so Seamus didn't say anything, just like he never did.

She ushered him to the living room and went to get them tea and biscuits, even though he offered to do that. That was their ritual. Every single time Seamus offered to help, and every single time Miss Knight patted him on his cheek and told him to relax and look at the pictures. By now Seamus felt that he knew the pictures better than his own face in the mirror, but he didn't mind. Some of the pictures were of Martin and his perfect little family all the way in Dublin; some were a shrine to Miss Knight's husband who died young; but the best ones were of Miss Knight herself. One picture was of her on an amateur theatre stage in her youth, dressed in a cheap baroque dress. Another one was of her with a silly birthday hat on her head and friends surrounding her; Seamus especially liked that one. A third was of the village itself, with her on her light blue bicycle that she later gave to Seamus.

Miss Knight carried her precious silver tray to the living room and sat next to him. She carefully opened the package in his plain view, just like always. Sometimes Martin sent just a letter, other times some photos, and for her birthday a little gift. This time it was an entire photo album. Not a large one, but large enough to keep Seamus listening to Miss Knight for hours this time.

"Doesn't he look smart?" she pointed at Martin in his tailored suit. He was a lawyer in the capital, living a comfortable life, with a pretty wife and pretty children. Martin himself was not much to look at; in Miss Knight's words, her husband was ugly as a pug but the kindest man the world had ever seen.

Miss Knight didn't look at him when she said: "His wife is switching careers now, you know. Something with computers. You're a smart lad, you should go back to studying too."

Seamus is not smart. He never has been. He had been only good at blowing things up, but there's not exactly a school for making things unnaturally explode. He knew that Miss Knight just tried to be kind, but sometimes he really wished she'd try a little less.

"I'll think about it," he said with no intention of doing so, and turned the next page. From the corner of his eye he could see Miss Knight slump a bit before pointing at the next picture of a girl with a violin.

"Oh, look at Millie! Oh, last Christmas she played to us so beautifully, you should've heard it!"

I might have heard her if your idiot son visited once in a while and brought the kids to see their grandma.

"I'm sure she's a proper prodigy," he said as politely as he could. Millie in the picture looks like she would rather do literally anything else than playing whatever Beethoven she was forced to play, but Miss Knight gave him a proud smile, and something inside him broke just a little bit. He has no memory if anyone has ever smiled about him like that.

An hour goes past before the whole album is finished and it was finally time for Seamus to go mow the lawn and tend to the garden. As she had more money than she needed and he too little, it was a good arrangement for both. Thankfully, Miss Knight wasn't too picky, as he was exactly no botanist. Seamus gulped down the remains of his third cup of tea and went outside to the shed, only to be shouted back.

"Seamus!"

"What is it?"

"You dropped something."

Miss Knight made her way slowly to him, her right hand holding the letter that had already been erased from his mind. He quickly reached inside his jacket and his heart missed a beat. After a quick thanks he grabbed the bloody letter, turning away before she had time to say anything more.

"Oh, we have time! Aren't you curious about what's inside? Go ahead and read it!"

Seamus wasn't sure if Miss Knight was just curious or if she was genuinely giddy that he apparently knew someone else besides her. Maybe it was both.

"Such a lovely day," she said as she sat on the garden bench and tapped the seat next to her. Seamus fidgeted, torn between not wanting to disappoint her and desperately wanting to avoid whatever was written in the letter. The first feeling and his affection towards the kind Miss Knight won, in the end.

The morning sun didn't warm him enough from the chills that spread from his chest. The letter was baby blue and decorated with wildflowers on the edges, beautifully handwritten words stabbing daggers at him letter by letter.

You are cordially invited to the wedding of Neville Longbottom and Hannah Abbott on September 14th 2003

His eyes never reached the remaining words at the bottom of the card. The beginning of it was enough.

Neville. You thoughtful, kind, generous idiot.

I hate you so much.

"What is it?" Miss Knight asked. Seamus knew that she was kind enough not to read the letter over his shoulder, but that didn't mean she lacked the confidence to ask him outright.

"Nothing. Just, my mate from school is getting married. That's all."

She didn't say a word. Seamus was certain that she was simply flabbergasted by the fact that he had (or had had) another friend, besides a flamboyant, widowed retiree. Not only did he know someone else, but that someone else was close enough to invite Seamus to his wedding. He worried, only half-jokingly, that this fact was going to mess up with her brains irreparably.

He couldn't believe it all himself, so how could he blame her?

Miss Knight clapped her hand at his shoulder and laughed. "Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant. When's the wedding then?"

"September."

He could already see the wheels turning in her head. "Do you have a suit?"

"I do have more clothes than this t-shirt and jeans, Miss Knight!" he answered, only half insulted.

"Of course I know that! I also know of your other t-shirts and other jeans, but that wasn't the question. Do you have a suit for the wedding?"

"I don't think I'm gonna go."

"Don't be a fool, Seamus, of course you'll go."

"…no. I don't have a suit."

"No matter, I'll lend you my husband's old one. I think you're about the same size. A bit old-fashioned, but just say it's vintage, darling, no one will have to know."

He loved miss Knight. She was like a grandma he never had, but always wanted. She always smelled like green tea and cinnamon, smiled with her warm brown eyes, sneaked candy to him even though he was a grown man, and talked endlessly about everything in the world. What was going on in the telly, which one of her numerous relatives did what and when, shared stories of her wild youth and slightly less scandalous adult years. She made him feel safe and warm the way no one had since ma and –

He also hated Miss Knight, who was too smart and kind and perceptive for her own good.

"I think it's going to rain soon. We can do this next week, alright, love?" he heard from his right, a kind, patient voice.

There wasn't a cloud to be seen in the bright blue summer sky.

Miss Knight had been an actress, after all. She knew how to hide the pity in her voice, even though she doubtlessly felt it.

Seamus nodded and rose, looking at anything but her. "Yeah. Sure look it. Thanks, miss Knight, for the tea."

"My pleasure," she smiled so widely Seamus was afraid her face was going to split in half.

Just like Lavender, her face red and open and torn and –

Shit. It's starting again.

"Until next week," he muttered and rushed to his bike, escaping to his empty home with only his thoughts and long-forgotten memories to keep him company.

The first year had been hell. Utter hell, to all of them. The world they knew was gone and a new, better one was in its place, but all the right people were never going to see it.

The second year had been a little better. By then he had realized how to forget that any of it had happened, that that world had ever even existed. He moved to his quiet, utterly Muggle village, did odd jobs and was quite content. It was a life. Not the one he had envisioned for himself when he was a stupid teenager with stupider dreams, but it was still a life.

Third and fourth and fifth years Seamus had been alive. That's all he could say. Time went by and the world with it, but not him.

Then that stupid invitation came and the world forced Seamus Finnigan to open his eyes and realize that the world didn't die in 1998.

Only Dean did.