Team: Holyhead Harpies
Position: Beater 1
Prompt: [prompt] Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - Write about a character trying to correct their flaws.
Optional Prompts: (emotion) afraid; (emotion) trepidation
Word Count: 2,827
Warnings: depictions of self-loathing, mentioned character death
hidden beneath this skin
Seamus had always been prone to starting fires. He couldn't explain it, but it had been true for as long as he could remember. His very first bit of accidental magic had been setting a bush on fire. His mother had practically fallen down crying, exclaiming that it was some kind of sign from God, meanwhile his father had let out a peal of thunderous laughter until his cheeks were as red as a rose.
It had never really gotten any better, even once he'd gotten to Hogwarts and was learning to control his magic. Setting things on fire was always the one thing he couldn't control. But he'd been lucky enough to find friends who didn't care. Especially Dean. Harry and Ron had laughed at Seamus' outbursts – not in an unkind way – and Neville had always seemed to eye him with trepidation. But Dean had never once been afraid of Seamus' fiery tendencies.
Even as they'd grown older and closer, even when they started dating… Dean had never had so much as a glimmer of fear in his beautiful eyes when he'd looked at him. His unwavering trust had even allowed Seamus to accept himself more and feel more at home in who he was. He no longer felt embarrassed or self-conscious when he caused something to ignite, and that was something he never thought would be true.
Lately things had been different though. He had started having nightmares a few months earlier and, in the last few weeks, they had become more intense. It wasn't exactly a mystery what caused it. The nightmares had started at the same time that he and Dean had started seriously talking about adopting a child together and, since they'd signed the papers, it had gotten so much worse. Every night he dreamt that he accidentally set their house on fire, that he was holding their baby and the blanket burst into flames. He dreamt of a hundred different ways that he could accidentally harm their child.
The nightmares were taking a toll on him as well. Exhausted, Seamus found that his accidents were becoming even more frequent, which in turn made the nightmares worse. And so the cycle continued. If there was one thing Seamus took away from it all, it was that he needed to find a way to fix himself – he could never be a father as long as he was like this.
"So… I've been doing some research…" Seamus said as he sat down at the dinner table.
"You?" Dean repeated, eyebrows raised. They had long ago proven that neither of them were very academically-inclined people.
"Yes," Seamus grumbled, his mood a little bit sour.
"Alright then," Dean said with a frown. "What have you been researching?"
He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly before he spoke again. "I… I've been looking into my pyro tendencies and… how to fix them."
"What?!"
He hadn't expected Dean to be immediately thrilled by the suggestion, but Seamus hadn't exactly been expecting quite such a virulent response.
"Seamus, no, you can't –"
"I can, and I have to, Dean," Seamus interrupted, sounding far more confident than he actually was. The truth was that he only thought he might be able to fix himself. But at least he could try.
"Shay, I don't want you to change any part of yourself," Dean said. "Why would you ever think you need to do that?"
"Because, Dean, we're going to be parents soon," he explained, "and I don't want to risk hurting our kid. They deserve two parents that can take care of them, not one father who's perfect and one who's dangerously broken."
Dean scoffed. "That's a ridiculous way to describe either of us, Shay; you're exaggerating. I'm not perfect and you're certainly not dangerous or broken. I trust that you would never hurt me or our child. If you don't trust yourself, then trust me - I know you better than anyone."
Seamus offered him a fake smile, wishing he could do what Dean told him to. But, as much as he wanted to believe that Dean's faith in him was justified, he knew it wasn't that easy.
Seamus made the arrangements in secret, having already heard how disapproving Dean was of this whole plan. While he greatly appreciated that his husband loved him for who he was and didn't think that he needed to change, Dean was wrong about this. Seamus knew this was for the best. He couldn't risk putting their family in danger.
He took a duffel bag to the pub with him and, sometime around eight, sent a message to Dean to tell him that he would have to stay late and not to wait up for him. In the early days of their relationship, Dean would have anyway, but now, as they neared 30, the repercussions of a late night were too great to be staying up until all hours for no reason.
Seamus had already arranged for Harry to watch over his little pub while he was gone, but truth be told, he had trained his staff well, so he had no reservations about leaving them for a few days. So once night fell and Seamus was certain there was no chance that Dean would swing by the pub for dinner or a little chat, he grabbed his duffel bag and clipped it to the broomstick that Harry had let him borrow. He snuck out into a dark alleyway and slung his leg over the broomstick, pushing himself up into the night air.
It would have been faster and perhaps more reliable to take a portkey, but there was something special about flying, and he had so few opportunities to do it these days, so Seamus hadn't wanted to pass up the opportunity. He watched the rolling hills of England turn into the Welsh mountains, the anxiety and trepidation building in his stomach and echoing the tumultuous landscape below him. What if he couldn't find anyone to help him? What if he was stuck like this forever? Or what if he got worse? Before he knew it, Seamus was flying over St. George's Channel, dark water churning beneath him. It was so dark out, he could barely see the cliffs of Ireland as he flew over his homeland, but somehow he knew anyway. It was as though his soul could sense that he was close to home, and it eased some of his worry.
It took another hour of flying for Seamus to reach his hometown, nestled along the banks of Lough Corrib. He touched down in a field just outside of town, still under the cover of darkness, and quickly transfigured the broom into a pocket watch that he could tuck away, and no one would be any the wiser. The sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon when he stepped onto his family's land, sheep bleating softly in the distance.
He could smell the warm starchiness of freshly baked bread and knew that his mother was awake already. She often woke with the sun to bake fresh loaves for their family and some of the neighbouring farms.
"Dia dhuit, Mam," Seamus said as he pushed open the door to the kitchen.
His mother started a little, dropping her rolling pin with a clatter, and let out a soft gasp when she saw it was him.
"Seamus!" she cried, pulling him in for a hug. "A leanbh, how big you've gotten! You look like such a man now."
"Mam, I was a man the last time you saw me too," he answered, grinning. "It hasn't been that long."
"I know, but now you truly look it," she insisted, running her hand over the sandy-coloured scruff along his jaw. "What are you doing back here, and why didn't you say you were coming?"
"It was sort of a last minute trip," he answered, supplying a half truth for the time being.
"Where's Dean?" his mother asked with a frown, just realising that her son-in-law wasn't there. "Has something happened between you?"
"No, Mam," Seamus assured her, "we're fine. I just... There's something I needed to do alone."
"Sit and tell me what's going on," she said, pointing to the little table that occupied the corner of the kitchen. "And when you're done we can have some fresh bread."
Seamus obliged, taking a seat while his mother placed her boule in the oven. When she was ready, he told her everything, from his nightmares and fears to his plan to fix everything, and even Dean's disagreement. When he was finished, his mother simply sighed.
"I agree with Dean; there is nothing wrong with you, Seamus. You have always been perfect just as you are," she said, her voice as soft and nurturing as her smile.
"Mam, don't tell me there's nothing that needs fixing when everything I touch runs the risk of bursting into flames," he retorted. As if on cue, the flames in the oven flared, ready to burn the loaves cooking within.
Calmly, his mother waved her wand and coerced the fire to a more normal size. "Seamus, if you truly feel that this is something you must do, I won't stop you. Every person must decide on their own who they are going to be. You are right to think that there may be some help to be found in Ireland, though it may not be as easy to find as you think. Our people have long believed in a witch with special talents and abilities, but no one has seen her in living memory. According to legend, she lives sequestered on the smallest of the Aran islands, in a house that can be found only by the most determined individuals, and only if their intentions are pure. This is who you must seek out. I believe she alone has the power to do what you are looking for."
"If she hasn't been seen in a century, how do I know she's still alive?" Seamus asked.
"I doubt something as trivial as mortality could affect her," his mother answered with a wry grin.
Seamus frowned at his mother, confused by the oddly personal way she spoke about this witch. But his mother had always been one for keeping secrets, and he wasn't about to start prying into them. The most important thing was that she told him how he could find the witch, and he was fairly confident that he would be able to do that. Well... Almost.
"Does this witch have a name, Mam?" he asked, pushing for one last detail.
"She does," his mother replied. "Her name is Sárait."
Wind whipped against Seamus' skin as he trudged across the low hills of the island, searching for some way to find the witch who could help him. In the moment, his mother's advice had seemed so helpful, but now he was realising just how little detail she had actually given him. Inisheer was a small island, but still it would take him days to search every inch of it, unless he simply got lucky and stumbled upon her home.
After a few hours of traversing the land, he knew he needed a better plan, something more logical than just walking back and forth. He thought about flying over the island, but the risk that someone would see was too great, and the risk that he would miss some hidden crevice was even greater. Instead, with a muttered spell, Seamus conjured up a map of the island, examining it and trying to find the most likely place for a hideaway. He presumed it would be away from the scant few residents that lived on the northern coast of the island, so his best bet was to start in the south. He could start in the east and work his way west, focusing his search on the southern half of the island to begin. And if that yielded nothing… well, then he supposed he would have to search the north.
After two nights of camping on the beach, Seamus rose with the sun and shook sand from his hair, brushing it from his clothes. He felt a chill deep in his body, despite the warm wool sweater that he wore and the cloak that he had kept wrapped around him. Truthfully, Seamus was miserable, and beginning to wonder whether he should ever have embarked upon this quest at all. But every time he thought about his family – his husband and the child they would soon raise together – he knew that what he was doing was right and he needed to persevere.
He trudged along the sand when something caught his eye. Nestled in the dip of a cliff was a crevice, one that seemed perfectly sized for a person to slip inside. He walked closer to investigate. The crack in the rock was nearly twenty feet high, and wide enough for him to step through comfortably. Once inside, Seamus felt his jaw drop.
It was like being transported into the cosiest of country homes, with potted plants standing against spiced-coloured walls and the soft smell of something cooking on a hearth. As he looked around, a young woman stepped forward, seemingly from nowhere, to greet him with a kind smile. She wore an old-fashioned dress and the plait down her back was as red as a Weasley's.
"Welcome, Seamus," she said in a melodic voice.
"You know who I am?"
"Of course," she answered. "Do you think I let just anyone into my home?"
He stared at her, incredulous. "But how –"
"There are a great many things I know, Seamus," the witch stated, taking a step forward, "including why you have come to find me."
He swallowed, his stomach suddenly fluttering with a feeling of trepidation. Would she judge him for what he was struggling with, or what he wanted to do? Would she even be able to help him?
"I don't want to hurt anyone else," he explained, though explanation hardly seemed necessary.
"I understand," she said, nodding. "It can be very difficult for elementals to control their gifts."
"Elementals?" Seamus muttered, utterly confused by her words.
The witch offered him a smile that seemed tinged with pity, as though she felt sorry that he didn't know. "Every so often, a witch or wizard is born with an extra gift, one tied to the elements. It is powerful, but sometimes unstable, magic. You, Seamus, are an elemental, one with the ability to manipulate fire."
"But… why?" he asked, still confused.
"No one knows why elementals are born, or how they are chosen," the witch said. "Perhaps it is a gift randomly bestowed, or perhaps there is something in your soul that draws it to you."
The knowledge of what he was and why his magic was so different, confusing as it was, filled Seamus with a calmness he had long been missing. Like a diagnosis, he could put a name to his affliction, and now that he knew what it was, maybe he would finally be able to fix himself.
A gift. The witch had called it that repeatedly. But it didn't feel much like a gift to him.
"How do I get rid of it?" he asked, focusing on his purpose for being there.
"Get rid of it?" the witch repeated. "Why would you want to get rid of such a precious gift?'
"Because it's no bloody gift!" he burst out, temper flaring and setting a plant in the corner aflame. Seamus sighed, gesturing to the burning ficus. "See? I'm not some wizard who can grow pretty plants - my fire is destructive, it hurts people. I don't want that anymore!"
"My boy, do you think that you are the only one who hurt people with their gift?" she asked him. "Why do you think I moved somewhere so remote? I caused a rock slide in my village and people died."
Seamus felt his heart sink. Was he doomed to a future living inside a cave on an isolated cliff shore? Could he never have a future with Dean the way he'd always wanted?
"If you think it's such a gift, why are you still hiding away?" he asked, fear of sharing her fate making him rude.
She laughed softly. "I had no teacher and it took me a long time to learn to control - I grew used to being alone. And I developed other interests."
"So... I don't have to live like this?" Seamus asked tentatively, nervous to hope. "You can fix me?"
"There is nothing to fix, Seamus," she replied, her voice filled with gentleness, "but I can teach you control, and then you need never be afraid again."
He let out a sigh, releasing the tension that had been building in his body his entire life. He wasn't broken. He didn't have to hate this part of himself.
Seamus was going to be alright, and so was his family.