Two years before the Battle, June 1996.

"Congrats."

"She's very nice, Shay. Don't be like that."

"Does your ma think she's nice too?"

"They haven't met."

"Well, Ginny's very nice. I'm sure she'll love her."

"Stop being such a git! I'm trying here."

"I'm trying too, Dean! I'm trying to be okay with this, but I amn't. And I know you're not either. I know you like me better than her."

"Well, maybe I'm just tired of you being so fucking clingy all the time! Do you even have any other friends, Shay? You can't just expect me to spend time with you and only you."

They were best friends for a reason. Dean knew him better than anyone and knew exactly where to hit. Seamus had other friends, and Dean knew it too, but they both also knew that none of them really mattered.

"Like you're any better," Seamus stated. This time it was the other boy's turn to flinch. "For such a nice guy you can be such an arsehole."

He feels the too-slow fingers on his elbow that quite don't reach him. Dean didn't come after him. He had a pretty girlfriend now, who was also smart and great at Quidditch and fun and exciting. There was nothing not to like. What kind of idiot would choose a short, slow, stupid Seamus Finnigan over her?

Seamus hated her.

Well, at least he tried to. His heart wasn't in it, but how else was he supposed to feel? He couldn't hate Dean, no matter how much he wanted to, and all he felt was utter disappointment and sorrow and those feelings needed to go somewhere. That somewhere might as well be Dean's stupidly perfect girlfriend.

However, a week later Seamus finds a drawing of a summer day by the lake, the giant squid waving in the background, and he forgave him.

What else was he supposed to do?

Hannah was as pretty as a bride could be and Neville was finally the Neville he was always meant to be. Just as kind and sweet as before, but confident and mature and loved.

This was a big fucking mistake. What had he been thinking?

It's Neville, Seamus. Be a nice person for once, Seamus. Go support your old mate, Seamus. It's just a few hours, Seamus. How bad can it be?

Oh yeah. Those things.

Dear past Seamus, you were a massive arsehole. I hate you, with all my heart. Cordially, present Seamus.

Seamus made a very conscious choice not to go even near the punch bowl. He didn't need his mind muddled any more than it already was. It wouldn't make him feel any better; it never did.

"You are so drunk."

"Am not! What're you laughing at?"

"Nothing. You lightweight."

"You're always so mean to me. What have I ever done to you?"

"Besides interrupting my studies, stealing my food, clinging on to me like a baby sloth, keeping me up at nights, and drawing stick figures in my drawing pad?"

"Baby sloths are adorable."

"That's very true."

"You think I'm adorable then?"

The hand petting Seamus' head stops for a moment.

"Yeah, you're cute," he answers after a while. Seamus can hear the smile in his voice and the hand starts moving again. Seamus smiles too, his smile hidden on his best mate's thigh where his head is resting. He thinks about last summer, at his place, and the same hand on his neck and –

"Seamus! Been a while."

It took a moment to recognize the voice, longer than it should have. They were roommates for six years, after all. Seamus gulped and turned around to see a familiar freckled face smiling at him.

"Hiya, Weasley."

"We didn't expect you to come."

"Yeah," he laughed awkwardly, shoving hands in his pockets. Ron smiled back, but it's that same smile Seamus always sees, the only one people have shown him since school. Pitiful. Sad. Condescending.

Is that the only way he was seen these days? He used to be more, in the past. Not much, but more. He'd been fun. He'd been liked. He'd been better.

Ron nodded understandingly. An uncomfortable silence surrounded them, broken finally by the redhead. "So. How's life?"

"Same old, same old. You? I heard you tied the knot this year too. Congrats, mate!"

Quick topic change. No one noticed a thing. Good job, Seamus, you fucking dolt.

Neither of them mentioned the sent and unanswered invite.

Ron grinned back at him before starting his tirade. It was almost like old times, Ron talking endlessly about Hermione's brilliance and intelligence and beauty and all that, but this time he didn't need to shrug it off or pretend to joke about his painfully obvious infatuation.

Was I ever like that? Seamus wondered. Did I sound like that, back then?

The talented, stunning, and overall perfect witch, according to her husband, slowly made their way to them, just as Ron had finished describing their flower arrangements in detail. Hermione laid a gentle hand on her husband's shoulder, stopping the seemingly endless flow of words.

"Yes, it was the best day of our lives, but you can take a breath once in a while, love."

"Seamus deserves to know about the most beautiful wedding ever to take place. You didn't mind, did you?"

"You really painted a picture there!"

"See?" Ron smiled at his wife so sweetly that Seamus felt like puking.

"I'm not sure if that was a compliment," Hermione chuckled and patted Ron's shoulder. "Go on now, Ginny needs rescuing from all those well-wishers."

His old keeper-reflexes kicked in, his eyes instantly spotting his sister from the crowd.

"Well that simply won't do," he muttered and stomped away without a single look back.

There she was, Ginny with her huge belly and the same kind smile she had when Seamus hated her more than anything on his sixth year. It had been silly then, and it was silly now, but it was also a comforting feeling to see her again after many years and still feel that same juvenile hatred burning inside him. He had managed to avoid her so far, safe in the remote corner of the garden, until Ron had found him and then Hermione and then her who shared something with Dean he never could have. It wasn't fair. He knew Dean better than anyone, loved him more than anyone, and he knew it was mutual, it must have been, before he had to go and he never came back and –

"She's due in December," Hermione said quietly next to him, saving him from the voice in his head. "It's a boy."

"That's great. Good for them."

"Seamus."

When did they all become so grown-up? Even Hermione had that grown-up voice nowadays, the same one that his ma used when he was just a sad little kid who needed some comfort. It was stern, and patient, and he couldn't stand it. They all even looked so mature. Confident. People who knew what they were doing. They were teachers, aurors, healers, researchers, salespeople, entrepreneurs, archivists, scribes, journalists, all that. They had families, jobs, houses and mortgages, dogs and cats and kids and hopes and dreams.

"Shay! Come and see!"

"I'm coming, I'm coming – Lav, stop dragging me – "

His vision was filled with gold and blue and green and fire on the sky. Her arms were tied tight around his shoulders as the night sky exploded in front of their eyes as the new year dawned.

"See, bunny? That's going to be you in a few years. Brown and Finnigan Event Planning – working title, remember. You get to create sights like that too."

Lavender always had big plans and silly dreams, and she had managed to make them Seamus's silly dreams too.

The only thing those dreams were used for blowing up a bridge.

His dreams never became more than smells of powder and copper, sounds of screams and cracking bones, and, finally, silence.

Lavender was torn to pieces. Creevey choked in his own blood. Seamus' own parents were burned in their own house as a blood traitor and a worthless muggle. Dean was never found. Carrows knew that. They knew everything. They knew all the right things to say to him, stabbed him to death with their words, torturing him inside and out, tearing his flesh and his mind inside out -

"Seamus."

Hermione sat next to him. When did they move away from the main crowd? When did he even sit down?

"I thought you needed some space," she said kindly to him. Her hand stroked his back in soothing motions. He couldn't remember her ever touching him before.

"Got lost in thought," he said and made extra effort to look her straight in the eye. Less suspicious that way, he knew. "We should get back."

He didn't make an effort to get up, regardless of his words. Hermione didn't seem put off by his vicious tone. Didn't even flinch.

"Have you ever talked to anyone? About what happened?"

"We're not talking about this. It's a wedding, for fucks sake. Cheer up. I'm doing fine."

"Are you?"

He spared the both of them the embarrassment of actually answering her question. They were both certain what the real answer was, but even more certain was the fact that he was not going to admit it. Instead he chose the easy way out, out of the conversation and out of their shared past.

"We were never friends, Hermione. Don't pretend we are now," he snapped and rose up, ready to storm out.

Hermione stopped him, holding his arm.

"I can still remember it too. Relive it, as if I'm there again. Her laugh. Her gentle hand on my cheek before the pain. The feeling of a thousand cuts, suffocation, the burns. All of it."

He felt a pang of shame, having forgotten what she'd gone through. But she only experienced that once, right? Not like him. It wasn't the same. That's why she was better, and he was not.

"All I'm saying is that you're not alone. Not that you will ever forget it, any of it. But it will get better. You will be able to sleep again for more than a few hours at a time, and to go to your friend's wedding and simply have fun. Not every time, but it gets easier. You don't have to be alone."

Shut up. Shut up shut up shut up.

Stop.

Seamus turned to her and forced his voice to calm down. "Listen. You're a good woman, Hermione. But you're not my friend. You never were. We were classmates. I was barely Harry and Ron's friend. I don't need this pity party. I was doing just fine before. I have a job. I have my own house. I don't have to worry about any of that magic shit."

He yanked his hand out and looked her straight in the eyes.

"This is the last time. I don't want to see any of you, ever again."

She didn't say one more word as he walked away.

He didn't look for Neville and thank him for the lovely party, even though he should have done that. It was for the best, really. He was in no mood to pretend to be happy and joyous on this wonderful occasion, and Neville deserved better than his old roommate sullying the mood. Neville had always been the best of them, still was, and always would be.

He was almost out of the apparition bounds when he heard his name called yet again.

"Finnigan!"

Just a few more steps.

"Finnigan! Stop!"

Soon this will all be over.

"What the fuck is it with you people today? Leave me alone."

"It's about Thomas!"

His heart stopped beating, his stomach dropped, his mind was filled with only one name on endless repeat. A name he had not said even once after the few hopeful months, after which only hollow loneliness had filled him completely and never left.

The woman ran and stopped in front of him. Seamus stared at her bright red shoes, pretty things with bows on top. He couldn't look at her. He already knew what she'd look like: the same sympathetic eyes that everyone else had. He'd had enough of that for one day.

"Who are you?"

The woman gulped.

"Parkinson. Pansy Parkinson. From Hogwarts."

This was a mistake. This whole day. That place doesn't exist, hasn't existed for five years, until this week. I can't remember, there's so much I can't remember, maybe it was the Carrows who did that to him, or maybe it was his stupid brain, he just can't -

Seamus shook his head and turned away. "Fuck off." I don't even remember you, let me be.

Determined footsteps followed him towards the border.

"I was Malfoy's friend."

"Cool," he said and increasing his pace. She did the same.

An awkward silence landed between them.

"So… you were close with Dean Thomas. I remember that."

He halted.

Seamus didn't need to know why she would remember that. He could guess. He and Dean had heard all they had to say back then.

She continued as he didn't answer. "He was always nice. He didn't have to be. Not to us, but he was. Cute, too."

Ah. A Slytherin, probably.

He didn't answer. She cleared her voice and continued.

"I found something. A journal. My parents – they… they both died in Azkaban, you know. He passed away last month. And as the last Parkinson, I inherited everything. I couldn't even enter their house before, as they were alive and banned me from entering, but two weeks ago I could finally get in. And I went through some of their things."

"A journal, you said," he muttered, not sure where this was going.

"My father, he was in charge of prisoners. And I know they caught Thomas, I heard them speak about it."

Seamus already knew this, even if he didn't want to. Suddenly there was no air left in his lungs and his heart had stopped its nervous thump thump thump that hadn't left him alone for the entire hell of an hour he'd been there.

Too much. "Just go to the aurors. The party is filled with them," his hollow voice said.

Her steps quickly followed his as her voice gained pace with every new word. "I will. I was going to, that's why I'm here. I mean, I was invited anyway, but I knew I wasn't exactly wanted here. I would've stayed home if it wasn't for the journal I found. But I wanted to speak to you first."

Seamus halted and turned to face her again. "Why the hell did you come if no one wanted you here?"

Her brown eyes stared at him, round in shock at his raised voice. For the first time that day he felt a pang of shame, meeting the scared eyes of his own kind: she didn't belong here either, not in this party, and not in this joyous new world. He dug his hands deeper in the pockets and avoided her eyes. "Just, you know, it would've been easier to stay home. I guess."

She chuckled but there was no light in her eyes. "Hannah's my boss. And a… a friend. I guess."

An uncomfortable silence landed between them. "Can I…" he muttered and vaguely pointed in her direction.

"Yes! Yes, of course. Just wait a second…"

She pulled out a dark blue journal, too big to fit in her purse without the aid of magic. The journal was dull and unremarkable, but still in pristine shape. He saw a dog-eared page near the middle and pointed at it. Parkinson shrugged.

"I was just browsing through when I saw the name. He's still missing and I didn't want to be charged with tampering with the evidence or anything like that. I know as much as you do."

"Why would you do this?"

For the first time he took a good look at her. He didn't remember her, but he didn't have to. There was no amount of makeup nor a dress fancy enough to cover the pallid skin, the skeletal body, the hunched posture under the pressure of her very own life.

She laughed a joyless laugh. "I loved them. My parents, with or without a tattoo in their arms. How could I not? I have the same memories as all children with loving parents. Piggyback rides. Picnics. Decorating the Christmas tree. Reading Beetle the Bard. I know they loved me. But now I also know that they were thieves, killers, torturers. Monsters. I'm not a good person. I was even worse back then. And I just can't stop thinking, that if maybe I would've thought for myself back then, questioned more, maybe found this journal…"

"Give it here."

She obliged.

He skimmed through the pages, looking for his name. Near the end he found it, the ten letters that he had tried to forget, ten letters that defined his school years and beyond.

He couldn't hear her even breath as they stood next to each other, both tense and lost in their own thoughts. The sounds of the party disappeared as he read on, numb and calm. Finally he gave the book back to her and kissed her cheek. Her body went stiff.

"Thank you," he said and pulled back. She was stiff and her eyes were wide, and she didn't even blink at his next words. "I hope you'll burn in hell."

She smiled back at him, a smile with no hint of life or joy in it. "That's better than I deserve. Goodbye, Seamus Finnigan. I wish you all the good in the world."

For the first time in five years, he apparated and was surprised to find all his body parts still intact. The feeling was just as horrible as it used to be, and he still had no idea why people would do this to themselves when they could've taken a perfectly fine train or a bus or literally anything besides apparating.

And finally. There it was. The forgotten little house, lost to the world and time, only to be re-discovered by a former wizard who normally would've run the other way at feeling the wards. Outwards it looked quite like his own childhood home, with the same shade of white paint and the same wild jungle of a garden - except smelling less like burned fat and more like moss and mould.

The entrance hall was no better, spiderwebs and bugs and stale air greeting him. None of the rooms in the first room were any better. The floor upstairs creaked but didn't fail him. Pictures clearly used to hang on the walls, as shown by the faded paint. Seamus could vividly imagine the Death Eaters taking down and destroying the pictures of the filthy muggles.

Upstairs was very much the same. The first room, a bedroom. The second room, a study. The third room, a nursery. The fourth door looked just like every other door in the house, brown with chipped paint and rusty hinges.

The door pushed open with a creak. Stuffy air greeted him, along with the sight of the one who never came back to him.

Seamus couldn't feel a thing.