A/N: Yes, I do realize that this chapter focuses on another couple NOT D/G. I have to show some reactions of other characters to various events, so bear with me. Besides, Emma/Seamus is fun. Trust me. Leave me a review anyway? This chapter is dedicated to the wonderful, magnificent and talented Kimmie, the creator of Emma/Seamus and one of the most insanely cool people EVER. *loves*
Disclaimer: They would kill me in my sleep if I owned them. Just look at how much sorrow I put them through!
~*~
After the storm... came more storms, of a different nature.
Out of the rubble that had been most of the school came a heavily decimated faculty, classrooms changed into temporary extensions of the hospital wing, and...
The ones who weren't so lucky, reduced to names on a list.
And there was no peace, even if many Death Eaters had been captured and the Dark army forced to retreat.
Seamus Finnigan had made it out alive, but there was no relief... because one name stood out on the list, black letters twisting like so many venomous snakes that buried their fangs into his heart...
And he fell to his knees and gave a scream.
He was 18, a man, and men weren't supposed to cry. But when Emma Dobbs part-led, part-dragged him down the corridors to the empty cell, he was half-blinded by tears.
When he looked up, she had pushed him into a sitting position on the floor, which was bare, only covered with a shaggy rug that was dark and dusty. "Emma," his voice was strangled, "Where are we?"
"Somewhere no one will ever come to," she said in a small voice, "Because you need to let it out, and I didn't think you wanted to do it in the Great Hall."
He blindly reached out, his hands heavy on her slender shoulders. The fingers would leave bruises, but he didn't notice, and she didn't care. His eyes, when they met hers, were filled with a myriad things, hatred and pain and anguish and anger... and most of all, a terrible loneliness and heartbreak, which came from losing someone of incalculable importance in one's life.
But the deep green pools, swollen with liquid and flooding, grew confused as they met pained sapphire eyes. "Why?" he rasped out, "Why are you here?"
"Because you mean a lot to me," she ventured. Confessions were not for this time, "And you need me here."
It seemed so SIMPLE when she said it, but he wasn't that stupid.
"You're the daughter of DEATH EATERS," he spat, his eyes blazing. "Your parents were THERE!" The words were accusatory, angry, as if she could control what sort of family she'd been born into.
"Yes," she acknowledged solemnly. "I'm the daughter of Death Eaters... but that's it." With an almost maddening gentleness, she reached out and brushed his tangled, sweaty bangs from his eyes, before holding him close but not too close, so he could cry on her shoulder, the girl consoling the man.
And cry he did, because he needed to. Howling in anguish, the tears, hot and heavy, soaked through the thin material of her uniform blouse, his eyes closed to the colours of her tie and the colours of his. As he mourned for his lost friend, she sighed, her face almost as full of agony as his, and rubbed his back. He needed a friend, and because she loved him even though that was wrong, she would be that friend today.
In between the strangled sobs and the burning sensation that came of too much emotion in too little time, death that came too fast, there came the muffled words that he was all alone, that his friend of seven years was GONE, just like that, wiped out like a candle snuffed. And when he lifted his head, his eyes were wide, almost like a broken-hearted child's, and she felt her own eyes overflow, her own heart break in her breast.
"You're not alone, Seamus," she whispered hoarsely, "Don't EVER think that you're alone. I'm still here for you, and I'll always be. I'll be your friend, or your confidante... I'll hold you while you cry, laugh with you, listen to you rant and rave... die for you, kill for you, betray my parents for you... and I swear by everything I know and everything that I am... that you'll never be alone."
Her "you're not alone"s, repeated so many times that he lost count, as her ocean blue eyes filled with tears and gazed with a distressed sincerity into his own, filled too with a myriad emotions and conflicts as stormy as his own, broke some sort of will, some sort of resolve within him, and the gentle, lighthearted friend that he'd been seemed to take a shift in a sharply different direction. Before her next 'you're not alone' was out her mouth, he'd shoved her down roughly on the rug, hot tears falling onto her pale cheeks as his lips caught hers, fiery and desperate and bitter and intoxicating, and she reached out her hands with an aching tenderness to caress his hair.
It wasn't the sort of lovemaking that either of them had expected. Their first time together (if they were even expecting to have such a time together) under other circumstances, would not have happened on the floor of some lonely room in the dungeons, and there would have been smiles and not tears. He was rough and clumsy, grief bringing out edges that most didn't associate with the charming Irish lad, but even as he clung to her, skin against skin, his tears fell on the cream-coloured, silken loveliness that was her body, his hands clenched around her waist almost painfully as he collapsed on top of her, her limbs entwined with his. She gazed up at him from under lowered eyelashes, as he, spent and drained, took deep, steadying breaths, the tearing sensation that had filled his chest at Dean's death becoming a dull ache. For several minutes, neither of them moved or spoke at all, unsure what to say.
She was the first to move. Gently lifting her hand from where it had been braced against his chest, she reached up to stroke his cheek.
His eyes widened, and then, pain filled his eyes again, but a different pain. Moving away from her and shivering involuntarily at the abrupt chill, he turned his face away, muttering a curse and something too soft for her to make out.
"What did you say?" she asked, her voice quiet as she flexed her legs, pulling herself into a sitting position.
"I... used you," he muttered dully, still not looking at her. "I... practically RAPED you..."
But her tiny hand had reached out, fingertips against his lips to quiet him, and then to cup his chin so that they were facing each other. Her face was calm, and her words were even when she spoke.
"Seamus... Slytherins don't allow Gryffindors to USE them."
And for a few moments, he sat still, his heart too full of things unexplainable to speak. And then, finally, he reached for her, and this time when their lips met, he was gentle, tender... loving. And she sighed slightly into his mouth, still tasting the tears even as she ran cool, soothing fingers down his shoulders. When they broke apart, she tried... and managed... to give him a little smile.
"Don't be sorry," she whispered, "And now you should sleep."
When they were dressed and the room cleaned up, they silently walked down the corridor to her quarters, private room for a Prefect. And he didn't let go of her hand until she'd pushed him down on her bed and tucked the covers over his weary body. And he, lethargic and now calm, let her close his eyes with her gentle fingers, giving in to the sleep of exhaustion.
She silently left his side, walking slowly across the room to the fireplace, and whispered "Incendio."
And as the firelight illuminated his features, finally smooth and tranquil in repose, she dropped the dark arts and anti-Muggleborn propaganda that her parents had sent her, year after year, one item at a time, into the twisting scarlet flames.
Disclaimer: They would kill me in my sleep if I owned them. Just look at how much sorrow I put them through!
~*~
After the storm... came more storms, of a different nature.
Out of the rubble that had been most of the school came a heavily decimated faculty, classrooms changed into temporary extensions of the hospital wing, and...
The ones who weren't so lucky, reduced to names on a list.
And there was no peace, even if many Death Eaters had been captured and the Dark army forced to retreat.
Seamus Finnigan had made it out alive, but there was no relief... because one name stood out on the list, black letters twisting like so many venomous snakes that buried their fangs into his heart...
And he fell to his knees and gave a scream.
He was 18, a man, and men weren't supposed to cry. But when Emma Dobbs part-led, part-dragged him down the corridors to the empty cell, he was half-blinded by tears.
When he looked up, she had pushed him into a sitting position on the floor, which was bare, only covered with a shaggy rug that was dark and dusty. "Emma," his voice was strangled, "Where are we?"
"Somewhere no one will ever come to," she said in a small voice, "Because you need to let it out, and I didn't think you wanted to do it in the Great Hall."
He blindly reached out, his hands heavy on her slender shoulders. The fingers would leave bruises, but he didn't notice, and she didn't care. His eyes, when they met hers, were filled with a myriad things, hatred and pain and anguish and anger... and most of all, a terrible loneliness and heartbreak, which came from losing someone of incalculable importance in one's life.
But the deep green pools, swollen with liquid and flooding, grew confused as they met pained sapphire eyes. "Why?" he rasped out, "Why are you here?"
"Because you mean a lot to me," she ventured. Confessions were not for this time, "And you need me here."
It seemed so SIMPLE when she said it, but he wasn't that stupid.
"You're the daughter of DEATH EATERS," he spat, his eyes blazing. "Your parents were THERE!" The words were accusatory, angry, as if she could control what sort of family she'd been born into.
"Yes," she acknowledged solemnly. "I'm the daughter of Death Eaters... but that's it." With an almost maddening gentleness, she reached out and brushed his tangled, sweaty bangs from his eyes, before holding him close but not too close, so he could cry on her shoulder, the girl consoling the man.
And cry he did, because he needed to. Howling in anguish, the tears, hot and heavy, soaked through the thin material of her uniform blouse, his eyes closed to the colours of her tie and the colours of his. As he mourned for his lost friend, she sighed, her face almost as full of agony as his, and rubbed his back. He needed a friend, and because she loved him even though that was wrong, she would be that friend today.
In between the strangled sobs and the burning sensation that came of too much emotion in too little time, death that came too fast, there came the muffled words that he was all alone, that his friend of seven years was GONE, just like that, wiped out like a candle snuffed. And when he lifted his head, his eyes were wide, almost like a broken-hearted child's, and she felt her own eyes overflow, her own heart break in her breast.
"You're not alone, Seamus," she whispered hoarsely, "Don't EVER think that you're alone. I'm still here for you, and I'll always be. I'll be your friend, or your confidante... I'll hold you while you cry, laugh with you, listen to you rant and rave... die for you, kill for you, betray my parents for you... and I swear by everything I know and everything that I am... that you'll never be alone."
Her "you're not alone"s, repeated so many times that he lost count, as her ocean blue eyes filled with tears and gazed with a distressed sincerity into his own, filled too with a myriad emotions and conflicts as stormy as his own, broke some sort of will, some sort of resolve within him, and the gentle, lighthearted friend that he'd been seemed to take a shift in a sharply different direction. Before her next 'you're not alone' was out her mouth, he'd shoved her down roughly on the rug, hot tears falling onto her pale cheeks as his lips caught hers, fiery and desperate and bitter and intoxicating, and she reached out her hands with an aching tenderness to caress his hair.
It wasn't the sort of lovemaking that either of them had expected. Their first time together (if they were even expecting to have such a time together) under other circumstances, would not have happened on the floor of some lonely room in the dungeons, and there would have been smiles and not tears. He was rough and clumsy, grief bringing out edges that most didn't associate with the charming Irish lad, but even as he clung to her, skin against skin, his tears fell on the cream-coloured, silken loveliness that was her body, his hands clenched around her waist almost painfully as he collapsed on top of her, her limbs entwined with his. She gazed up at him from under lowered eyelashes, as he, spent and drained, took deep, steadying breaths, the tearing sensation that had filled his chest at Dean's death becoming a dull ache. For several minutes, neither of them moved or spoke at all, unsure what to say.
She was the first to move. Gently lifting her hand from where it had been braced against his chest, she reached up to stroke his cheek.
His eyes widened, and then, pain filled his eyes again, but a different pain. Moving away from her and shivering involuntarily at the abrupt chill, he turned his face away, muttering a curse and something too soft for her to make out.
"What did you say?" she asked, her voice quiet as she flexed her legs, pulling herself into a sitting position.
"I... used you," he muttered dully, still not looking at her. "I... practically RAPED you..."
But her tiny hand had reached out, fingertips against his lips to quiet him, and then to cup his chin so that they were facing each other. Her face was calm, and her words were even when she spoke.
"Seamus... Slytherins don't allow Gryffindors to USE them."
And for a few moments, he sat still, his heart too full of things unexplainable to speak. And then, finally, he reached for her, and this time when their lips met, he was gentle, tender... loving. And she sighed slightly into his mouth, still tasting the tears even as she ran cool, soothing fingers down his shoulders. When they broke apart, she tried... and managed... to give him a little smile.
"Don't be sorry," she whispered, "And now you should sleep."
When they were dressed and the room cleaned up, they silently walked down the corridor to her quarters, private room for a Prefect. And he didn't let go of her hand until she'd pushed him down on her bed and tucked the covers over his weary body. And he, lethargic and now calm, let her close his eyes with her gentle fingers, giving in to the sleep of exhaustion.
She silently left his side, walking slowly across the room to the fireplace, and whispered "Incendio."
And as the firelight illuminated his features, finally smooth and tranquil in repose, she dropped the dark arts and anti-Muggleborn propaganda that her parents had sent her, year after year, one item at a time, into the twisting scarlet flames.