Seamus's Winter Friend

by Chicklepea

A delightful short story set during a bleak November in the countryside of Ireland. Seamus tells us about a short period in his life back when he was but a child: when he met his first friend.

A/N I own nothing. JK Rowing owns all.

I met me best mate on a chilly November day; I don't remember the exact date, but I know it was not the first, since that was the day of the argument, and on the fifth we threw Guy Fawkes into the flames. At a guess I'd say it was the third, since I spend the second locked away in my room refusing to come out.

The leaves all across Ireland were long since gone from the trees, leaving them hanging like dreary skeletons against a grey wash sky. It was quiet at the house; grandpa was out hunting: he'd taken his favourite shotgun and a warm set of earmuffs. He shot something I think, because we had a large tea that night, and grandma was smiling as she cooked.

I had never been to Grandpas house in winter before; I usually only went during summer, when it was warm and full of life, but this year was different, for my parents had had the argument.

It wasn't a normal argument, usually when they disagreed, my mum would call him lousy faggot and throw a plate or two at his head. I think that's where my dad learned to duck so well; you can never hit him in the head with anything, no matter how hard you try he always catches what you throw and calmly puts it back in its place. Well, this argument it was my dad who was doing the shouting, I cant remember the words, but I know part of it was about me. I'd done something you see. Something I shouldn't have. I still don't know what, a full twenty years later and I still don't know what I had done. But I do know what the argument was about, magic, my dad didn't know it existed, neither did I, not then anyway. Me mam knew though, she was a witch, not one of those with a green nose and warts all over their faces who eat wee children -which is what I thought my dad was calling her- but the kind that I now know to be my friends.

At that time I wasn't aware that it really wasn't my fault that they had argued, and so I had locked myself in my room at Grandpas and refused to come out, not even for food. Well, for one day I did. I wasn't nearly as stubborn as my cousin Jess. My cousin Jess was renowned in our family for locking herself in her room for an entire week to get a new Barbie doll she liked. She didn't get it of course; her dad broke her door down and grounded her for another week.

I sat beside my grandma on the floral settee, where she sat with a set of knitting needles, weaving in and out, over and under at a pace that mesmerised me. The fire was warm, and I was cosy. I didn't want to leave the house; I had just drank a streaming hot mug of chocolate, and eaten a digestive biscuit leaving crumbs on the green woollen cardigan my mum had made me ready for winter. I still tell her that it was child cruelty to dress me the way she did, though secretly I loved the clothes she made for me: the care and love I now know she put into each stitch makes me feel all warm inside.

My grandma had other ideas. My whines that "I wanna go," "I wanna cuddle" "I wanna hold your hand" were getting on her nerves. She sighed and pursed her lips, and I continued to watch her thread the needle, go over, go under, around and back. She insisted I go out. Children my age should be out in the garden playing with rocks and soil. I honestly hadn't a clue what she actually wanted me to play with; her garden stretched out into the hills as far as I knew, full of wheat and barley for miles on end.

My protests went unheard, and I was wrapped up in a thick navy blue coat with a silver zipper, and a matching scarf and hat. Red Wellingtons were put on my feet, along with an extra pair of socks. I felt like a rolly polly doll, as though if I fell over I'd roll around on my back like a tortoise until someone moved me over.

The air was had a sharp bite to it, it turned my cheeks a rosy pink, and caused my hands to shiver. This of course had me a pair of woollen red mittens shoved on my little hands, making it difficult to pick anything up at all. I pouted and paddied, but she gave me a green ball to kick around and sent me on my way.

The ground crunched under my feet, so I jumped up and down on the grass, laughing at the strange noises it made. Frost was fun that way. The ball lay forgotten on the front porch step, I didn't like playing football all alone; there was no one to kick the ball back when you kicked it away.

I was standing forlornly in the wheat field, wondering what there was to do here and wishing I was back inside with the fire, or at home with my mum and dad. It was boring in November, no large stalks of wheat to disguise you from view, there was nowhere to hide from your imaginary enemies. Just hard brown ground with little trenches making it lumpy and uneven, the perfect ground to twist an ankle on.

I then heard a voice of a girl, I can remember the surprise and joy of another child being here, and because of that I didn't stop to think of why she was here, or where she came from. I didn't care, I had a friend.

"What are ye looking at?" she said. I turned to look at her, delight covering my young face, and I ran over to where she stood in a dirty red dress and ripped white tights. Her face was pale, and a large bruise stood out like a blob of ink on white paper. I reached out to touch the mark, but she backed away, bringing her own hand up to cover it. "I tripped by the river and hit me face on a rock," she said.

"ye alright?" I asked, noting her wet hair as a signal that she had fallen in. When I think back I wonder why the rest of her wasn't as wet as her hair, but it wasn't. Nor do I know why I didn't notice that the bruise never faded, nor why the little dahlia flower that was tucked in her hair never died, its white and maroon petals never wilting.

She ignored my question and ran off towards the hills, indicating for me to follow. Which I did. We played there for hours, climbing trees, chasing squirrels. Her name was Sarah, Sarah Bennet. Sarah at that moment became my new best friend: its strange how that happens when your young. We talked about everything, about my parents, their fight. She thought it was funny, she giggled as I told her what happened. And then told me about her parents,

"me ma n pa always argue like that. Pa don't be liken nothin magical he don't. Me ma says she'll poisn his tea one day, I recon she would too. Thats just one of the uses of Dragons blood she used to say. There's a dragon in them hills there dont ya know! A beaut lass she is, though i wouldnte wanna catch her to get some blood all for the sake of purrin in tea, would you?"

I can recall my bewilderment at her words; the hills where my grandpa was hunting were the home to dragons? I stared at her face, still deathly pale despite the chill and shook my head. A dragon? Like the ones in bed time stories? At first I thought her a liar, but the longer we played, the more I began to believe everything she told me. And she knew some amazing stories too. About fairies and elves that clean your home, and about trolls that beat travellers senseless, and flying lights in the distances that her ma always warned her about.

I returned home just as dusk was falling: it must have only been four pm, but to me it seemed much later. My Grandma was singing in the kitchen, smiling as she cooked a roast. And my grandpa was sat by the fire, smoking his black pipe and staring into the embers. I took off my layers, leaving them on the floor in the hall, and climbed up upon my grandpas knee where I told him about my new friend named Sarah, and about the dragons in the hills and the fairies by the stream.

"yer imaginations like them fairies boyo," he'd laughed.

At tea my grandma refused to listen to my stories, she remained tight lipped, though I knew it was against her will. Each time I spoke about my friend and our adventures Grandpa would tell my Grandma to let me have my fun, and Grandma would tut. I didn't mention Sarah again, because that night I heard my grandparents arguing. It wasn't like at home, no china was thrown; just whispered words hissed through clenched teeth. I think I preferred the china throwing arguments, it blocked out what they were saying better. My Grandma was calling me a liar. I cried that night.

The next morning Sarah was waiting in the wheat field. I ran over telling her how I hated my grandma, she was sympathetic at my plea, and decided that we'd have to prove that I wasn't lying. We decided to search for the dragon. I suggested following the river, since that way we wouldn't get lost, but Sarah didn't like the river; she was scared of it. I understood. I would have been too if I'd have fallen in, I'd thought.

Instead we took a rough trail through the skeletal trees, kicking up soggy leaves as we went, usually at each other.

We didn't find a dragon, but we did find a cave the size of a my broom closet at home. It might not have been much, but to us we may as well have found the crown jewels. I thought that maybe pirates had used it to hide their treasure, but Sarah disagreed, saying that pirates stayed near the sea. She thought that it was the home of a banshee; I didn't know what one of those was, but Sarah did. And she told me. I didn't like the sound of those. The way she told me about them, with puffs of icy breath coming from between her pale blue lips gave me the creeps. I still don't like the sound of banshees even now, though I've never seen one.

I asked Sarah to stay for tea, but she didn't want to. She said she had to go home soon, her mum would worry. She didn't tell me where home was, but her face took a sad look when she mentioned her mum. I didn't know why at the time, I do now though and in some ways I wish I could go back and have said something more helpful, more comforting. But I didn't, and that was that.

I saw Sarah the next day, that night would be the bonfire. We planned to meet up, that night, in the village, and so secretly that day we planned. We wrote messages to one another in "invisible ink" on any flat rocks we found lying around, just in case my grandma found our messages and realised our intentions. We decorated our cave with sticks and evergreen leaves the best we could, in case my grandma kicked me out and I needed a place to stay. The cave is still there now; I go there sometimes when I visit the house; my grandparents died a while ago, but I still see to their property. The twigs and leaves have long since rotted away, but mine and Sarah's hands are still on the wall where we drew around them in a pencil I took from my grandpas drawer; they are so small compared to my now fully grown ones.

I didn't get to meet Sarah that night; my parents came and collected me. They were there as soon as I got home. I was happy to see them, in a way, but sad at the same time. I didn't get to say goodbye to Sarah, and she'd be waiting for me, wondering why I didn't turn up. My parents didn't care though; like my grandma they just told me to stop making up tales. Then they packed me in their old bmw, ignoring the tears dampening my cheeks, and drove me back to the seaside where I grew up.

I never saw Sarah again, maybe she only came in November, I thought. I looked for her, every summer I looked, and called her name. But I never saw her again. Two years ago I saw her grave, a simple flat lump of stone sticking out the overgrown grass of the church yard. Her name written clearly at the top. She died young, at only six years old, in the river by my grandpas house, in the year of 1872.

Reviews are welcomed and encouraged.

A/N Written to the Param's by Carnimirë Nairiel, for the HPANA Fan Fiction Writers Challenge, which can be found below. The variables that I used are in the italic font.

Parameters for FanFic Writers' Challenge - 22

The story can be in any genre, but should have a slight twist at the end. Can be set in any time and place, as long as it does not contradict canon.

Must use one canon character about whom we do not know much (example – Hestia Jones, Ernie McMillan, Frank Longbottom) or an unknown facet of a known character (example – McGonnagal as a jilted lover, Umbridge as a doting mother), without contradicting canon (for example – Wormtail cannot be from Slytherin).

Incorporate any two of the following four lines, or any reasonable variants (you could incorporate all four, but two is sufficient) –
- "Mudbloods, half-bloods, blood traitors"
- "That is one of the uses of Dragon blood"
- "He/ she is/was the smartest wizard/ witch of his/ her time."
- "I wanna hold your hand."

Use any four of the following eight items (or reasonable variants) -
- A broom closet or broom cupboard
- Chocolate frog cards
- Hogwarts – A History
- A wand with a mysterious core
- A dahlia (flower) with maroon and white petals
- A witch/ wizard in Muggle clothing
- A messenger patronus
- Invisible ink