A/N: Yes, I have begun to write slash. I suppose I should warn you that there is slash, and if you don't like that, fine. I personally think these drabbles are well written, with only minor problems, those being cliche storylines.

As always, I will review anyone and all those who review me. So send them my way.

And, as I hinted at in the summary, this is a series of drabbles, five each chapter, a different pairing each chapter. Not to say I won't ever revisit a pairing later. Now, the deal is if you leave me a review with a pairing of your choice, I will write for it, and mention you in the author's notes. A bit of fame, who could resist. The only limitations are it cannot conflict with a pairing already done, unless it takes place at an earlier time. Understand? And each review cannot be just a pairing. I'd appreciate a constructive word or two. Otherwise I can't get better.

Now, I think that's all clear. And, yes, I will resume writing "That Damn Red Frizz", when my writer's block leaves me.

The first pairing up, is Seamus/Harry.

Special thanks to the real Riddle. Not the actual Tom Riddle, but my beta, and other half, Riddle. So thank you dear.

***

Seamus hated his hair. Hated how it laid there, a gray-blonde mass of no use. He hated his freckles along his nose, hated how his pale Irish skin would flame red with the slightest hint of sun. He loathed his knobby knees, his pointy ankles, and his elbows so sharp they could take an eye out. He cursed his dimpled chin, and the birthmark on his right middle finger. He hated the shape of his face, arms, the shape of his whole being, in such a way that he was apt to avoid his reflection for days on end. Seamus would lay awake most nights, eyes squeezed shut, wishing more than anything he were someone else. Each morning he'd awake disappointed.

But afterwards, when Harry commented on how sweet his lips were, he had to admit he had found something to love.

***

He'd slip away on those nights, muttering a farewell to Ron and Hermione. Hardly caring what they said, Harry's feet would carry him through the crowded room and silently up the stone stairs. Below, the chatter of the students, the laughter and the cries, would melt away, peeling from Harry with each step. His worries, his titles, would evaporate long before he'd reach the final landing. Holding his breath, he'd wait, invisible in the shadows, eye closed, bargaining no sound for a few sweet moments of non-existance.

Hot breath on his face would snap his eyes wide open.

There, in the shadows of the highest point, they would kiss. Silence would deafen them, as they dared not to touch, lest reality invade their carefully blocked minds. Mouths moving, tounges fighting - ending quicker than it began. A smile here, a word shared there, and they were through before they had begun, forming a precise departure, fear ruling their hearts.

And then, Harry would watch as the sandy-colored hair would disappear from view.

***

When he was still a lad, long before the years of Hogwarts, his mother wouldn't dare let him out of her sight. Watching his mother as she minced and mixed, Seamus would stare up from the floor where he was set down to play, the woman's prized antique figures spread before him. His favorite, a short plump woman with rosy cheeks standing beside a tall thin man in an emerald cloak, would cry out sentiments when prompted to.

Late at night he'd lie, thoughts swarming around the figure, unable to rid his young mind of its more frequent message.

"Love is never wrong!" It's cry out to Seamus. Looking at the couple, he figured it must be true; such opposites could never be so loving otherwise. Head filled with love, he'd drift off to sleep, a smile upon his face.

Years later, as his family scorned, Seamus smashed the figure and hid it where no one could see.

***

Neville wasn't sure if they thought he couldn't hear them, or if they just pretended he couldn't, but those nights he'd lay awake, hardly daring to breathe for fear of alerting them. The moon would be shining through the window next to his bed, having reached its zenith, when the whimpers of Harry's nightmares would begin. Ron, snoring loudly and deeply, would never hear the nightmares unless they turned into screams, something excluded to a weekly occurance. Dean was a notoriously sound sleeper, waking only when Seamus would pour a pitcher of water on him. But Neville would always spring awake, so fluidly it was impossible to tell if he had ever been asleep to begin with.

Laying in his bed, silently, he would listen as the drapes would pull back from the bed beside him, feet creeping across the dorm with a gentle patting sound. He would hear the whispers of comfort Seamus would breathe, hear Harry struggle out of his dreams, hear the creaking of the bed as they'd embrace. Their hurried words would echo in the silent room, blending with the snores of Ron and the tossing of Dean.

The night Neville first heard the ever so slight sound of their kisses, he snuck over to the bed where they laid, peeking through the hangings. Seeing Harry and Seamus laying there, fitting together as if they were two pieces of a puzzle, as if they were meant to fit so smoothly together, he felt the calm of relief, and made his way back to his own pillow. He wasn't sure what he expected, but was content to find it wasn't there.

It took only a few nights of this before their sounds became backround music, soothing and calmingly routine, and Neville found himself anxious for those nights to come.

***

The blank parchment laid before him, taunting blank space screaming out. Books were stacked haphazardly about, hiding him from view, opened and willing to fill his mind. As his eyes blurred with weariness, letters began to jump out to him, melting together until all he could see were ink spots. Echoing sounds of quills meeting parchment flooded his ears, deafening him. Tearing his eyes from the writing before him, he glanced around at the hunched forms scattered about the library.

"Harry, you're not even trying!"

If only she knew.

" . . . failing marks! Hand me . . ."

Hermione's voice faded in and out as Harry slowly scanned the library. His eyes locked as he spotted the young Irish boy, his back arched over a textbook, lips parted slightly as he read to himself.

" . . . never move on!"

Shaking himself, Harry softly smiled at Hermione.

"I know, Hermione," he glanced back to the patch of sandy hair, "I know."