A/N: It's almost as if this story doesn't exist. Maybe I should put "Slash" in the summary. Enjoy!


Waking Seamus Finnigan
By: Mauvais Sang

Chapter 3: Aligheiri & Strixology

Keep your windows closed. They open to let the chill inside and with it, a sneeze, a cold, and general ill-being.

When I find that heavy rock pulling and gnawing at the depths of my subconscious so ostentatiously dubious that it manages to climb to the surface of my conscious being and bubble angrily just beneath it, I create traps for myself and set them up carefully in Virgil's Forest so that the beast is caught, strangled, apprehended, and hurled back into those Circles of Hell that it spewed forth. And then I am on my way again. As a boy of sixteen, I encounter more beasts in a single time frame than an entire life without it and, not dissimilar to magma that pools just beneath a spring of water boiling and rendering it a danger, I become altogether a more moody and volatile individual.

Take the example of that argument with my mother. Retrospect gives me dissecting eyes that being in the present situation did not.

My mother, she's not a beast, but she simply helped to release one of them. A beast is a shame, an experience, a guilt and a desire that feeds on the soul and commits it to atrophy. So the soul succumbs to starvation, so does the body, and, in effect, the life. A beast gnaws at the tendons and sucks at the marrow of existence, if left out too long or if virulent enough will obviously cause heavy damage and mental trauma, so beasts are wished to be apprehended and trapped in as quick a way as possible. The apprehension of a beast is a subject within itself. Needless to say, the catching of a beast is a long and enduring project.

Earlier in the summer, approximately three weeks and two or three days after the lazy June subsided to an emblazoned July, I took an amicable trip to Diagon Alley. However, it must be said, that this was shortly (However long "short" is, anyway. I considered it rather long, but I seemed to have a rather sluggish reference of time according to my mother) after the events of Hogwarts and the murder of Dumbledore. She forbade me to go to Diagon Alley. But I had to go there. I had to go see him. She never forbade me to Dean's house. So I told her I'd be there. But it was a lie. It was a beast impregnated in the womb of my psyche, ready to rip forth and scream, and shriek, steaming hot like a ripped open dumpling.

She found me there. But it is not within the finding which gives the final push to the beast, but rather the situation, the action, and the lie. Why she herself was there was something I hadn't investigated, but the point was she was there, and she saw, and she was furious. She never said a word. Didn't say a thing to my father, and I suspect she never said a thing to herself. I shackled that beast and threw it into the depths of my being but that afternoon, in a grand total sum of eight whole words, she released the monster, and it ran, eager and hungry, athirst and agog. Any beast, when chained and cage, will grow obscene in his captivity, and leave less human and more demonous than he was before.

So I reprimanded her, by becoming my own little monster.

Therein lays the shame that feeds the beast. Shame. Shame us. Seamus. Our names seem to foretell the story of our lives, doesn't it. Was it wrong to burst at her? What compelled her to unshackle that shame and run it rampant in our home? Why do I still feel the beast gnawing at my Achilles' tendon?

Or, maybe, I've had it all wrong the entire time. It's only something I can now contemplate and improve upon for later, instead of erasing and editing my life as experienced before and, in that sort of way, find and shackle more beasts.

So brings me closer to the present time, away from analysis and vivisection, where there I stood, holding an enveloped addressed to "Finnigan" and addressed from "Potter", staring at the familiar hand writing, the thin scribbled lettering it was, common, standard-issued parchment paper soft like crinkled bills. I was guilty. I didn't want to open it. I didn't want to look at it.

But I did, anyway.

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A/N: Oooo what's gonna happen? fdsa;f.fdsa