is onórai poll ná paiste

Personal

MSN: asdapheen

We can always text it up, home skillets.

Until then, friends.

In only made sense to Seamus that he should take Care of Magical Creatures beyond the required courseload. He'd spent most of his young life helping to take care of animals, and while there was a distinct difference between lambs and blast-ended skrewts, the generalities of looking after any creature were the same, whether they be magical or not, horrific or benign: compassion, attention, and knowledge. Patience was surely in there somewhere, too, as well as a steady temper, but those had never been Seamus' strong suits and hell if he hadn't paid the price for it over the years. It wasn't as if he planned to work on the Dunne farm once he finally left Hogwarts, but there was something familiar about the course, eternally intriguing despite his occasional reservations about what was covered in class.

It had been rather strange, initially, that the years were collapsed, making particularly clear how out of place he was, surrounded by younger years and being taught by a man very nearly his own age. He might have come to resent it, had Seamus not regarded so fondly the chances offered to him by the Eighth Year, and instead the irony amused him. When he was in a good enough mood, he would joke with the younger students and help them where he could, occasionally heckling Rolf in sport. For the most part, the class was a time to either de-stress and lose himself in mindless work, or relax and let his mind wander when confronted with a lesson he was already familiar with. There were other eighth years, of course, and it wasn't as if he made it a point not to interact with them, but he didn't feel the need to flock to their company like a lost dog.

It had not been anything special, he thought, to return home. The train ride was long, as always, but he occupied his time by chatting with underclassmen and causing trouble amongst a group of Ravenclaws. (It was an accident, honest!) It felt peculiar, of course, not to have Dean by his side, but he'd long grown used to their inexplicable distance. The sweets from the trolly that he usually shared with Dean were instead spread amongst the boys with whom he shared the compartment.

As the sky outside darkened, Seamus made it a point to watch the environment as it sped by. He was stuck in his own thoughts again, although not in any way that might disconnect him. Daydreaming. Twice his acquaintances attempted to draw his attention back into the conversation, but eventually they gave up, content to let the Irishman occupy himself.

He wondered, dimly, how his parents had fared in his absence. It wasn't as if he'd paid much attention to their states before he'd left for Hogwarts, and so he was left comparing a long-painted picture with dim memories. He only hoped that they didn't spend their time worrying about him. It would have been a shame if they did.

As they'd arranged a week earlier by owl, they would not meet him at the train station in London. Instead, he would hail a cab to his cousin Brutus' house nearby and stay there until Christmas Eve. Together they would floo to the Dunne farm, run by their mothers' family, and the Christmas celebrations would commence.

Brutus lived in a small flat on the edge of the city. He'd moved there two years ago to try his hand working for the Ministry, but once he'd caught wind of its corruption, he'd taken up work at a local shop with odd jobs on the weekends. He didn't make much, but it was enough to live comfortably away from the farm. The very fact that he'd moved away when his immediate family was the one that tended so closely to it was bewildering, however. He loved to work in the fields, and he'd always been the one to sit in with his father and grandfather while they made long- and short-term plans. He was its future. But, he'd confided in Seamus his plan long before moving out. He wanted to move away from the countryside and get a job that was more than sustenance, a portion of every paycheck stashed away to be used when he returned. He seemed to be the only one of the family with enough forethought to think ten years down the line. The farm got along well enough, but for how long? He wanted to make sure that it would always thrive, and though that was the intention of every Dune, Callaghan, Clarke, and Finnigan that worked its fields and pastures, Brutus knew that no one would agree with his take on the matter. They would tell him that he was worth more there than off making money, but he was assured of his position. It was what made the man so admirable to Seamus, and a true Gryffindor to take after.

God knew they were both as stubborn as the day was long.

Brutus was just as huge as Seamus remembered, all muscles and width. He liked to imagine that hugs from him were somewhere up there with the ones he'd seen Harry receive from Hagrid, except that, with Brutus, he tried to break backs. All in good fun, you see. There was something with their family and friendly violence. He couldn't imagine being as close to his cousins as he was if they hadn't grown up throwing each other down hills, and the fact that his other cousin, Liam, was so distant only solidified this belief. The man was pretentious, intelligent, and disdainful of the magic that coursed through most of his family's veins. He, his brother, and his mother were all muggles, but where his younger brother was enthusiastically enraptured by their magical heritage and time in the Irish countryside, Liam regarded them all as brutish idiots. He still showed up for holidays, of course, and last Seamus heard, he'd found a nice muggle girl to settle down with, but the man had always been the first to cry mercy and hide away when his cousins got rough. Nobody liked him much.

As for Brutus and his sister, Clare, they might as well have all been the best of friends, age differences be damned. Their habitual violence remained testament to this.

Clare was Brutus' older sister by three years. Like all of the Dunne women, she was stubborn, strong-willed, and deceptively feminine. Having been raised amongst four other children, all boys, she could take better care of herself than most of them, and she made it a point to let everybody know it. Neither Seamus nor Brutus had ever come away from a family gathering without a bruise or two, and on one occasion, she'd broken her brother's arm. Nobody had ever gotten the story straight, but as far as Brutus was willing to admit, there had been a dare, a river, and a lost wrestling match. Nobody challenged Clare's assertion that it had been an accident, and almost solely her brother's fault.

In stark contrast to this, and to almost every encounter with Brutus that Seamus remembered, there was a distinct lightness to his cousin's roughhousing, a restraint, and Seamus recognized it almost immediately as the pity and care that fragility warranted. It infuriated him. "What is it, then?" he'd asked bitterly Christmas Eve morning, pushing the older man roughly amidst a round of banter so commonplace that they hardly gave it thought anymore. He'd been brooding all morning, and he'd had enough. He wouldn't leave this thing unchallenged when he finally faced the rest of his family.

Brutus had grinned, ever striving for the elusive art of deception. Just like every other poor sod in their family, however, he was shit at pretending. The real emotions were always just beneath the surface, peeking through like small children who thought they couldn't be seen through the holes in a picket fence. "Dunno what ya mean."

"Bullshit," Seamus called. "'M not some bird, so stop treatin' me like it. I got caught in a war, not made inta a woman."

There was no room, Seamus thought, for a man that couldn't hold his own. The very idea that his family might hold back and coddle him was an insult. He might think he was worthless, but Lord have mercy on the soul who shared the sentiment. He would ever be ready to prove them wrong.

Sheepishly, Brutus laughed, rubbing at his arms. He'd been caught, but he wouldn't outright admit it, or even apologize. It wasn't his way. "I wasn't treatin' ya like no woman, Shay. If I acted like that with Clare, she'd gut me."

True enough.

"So what is it yer doing, eh?" Seamus asked, disgruntled.

"I'm just testin' the waters," Brutus replied, ducking into his room to change out of his pajamas and into church clothes for the day. Like most, he would be prepared for midnight mass when it rolled around. "Can ya blame me? Last time I saw ya it was like seein' a dead man walk. I didn't know whether ta try an' draw ya out or go shovel a pit out back."

As Brutus moved to the bathroom to fix his hair, Seamus trailed after him. Like always, he'd been showered, shaved, and dressed before the elder had even blinked a bleary eye, and he'd gotten into the habit of preparing breakfast in the morning, much to Brutus' amusement. The first time, he'd referred to his cousin as good housewife material, didn't know why no handsome British bloke hadn't picked him up yet, and Seamus had promptly popped him in the shoulder, much harder than was, strictly speaking, necessary to shut the man up. Or even to knock him over. Ahem.

"Well, I'd like to think I'm a right better sight than four months ago," Seamus argued, leaning against the door frame of the small, bleach-white bathroom. Picking up the hair gel on the counter, he bouncing it in his hands a few times before giving Brutus and a pointed look. Brutus responded by snatching the bottle back and glaring warningly.

"I s'ppose. Instead of a dead man, yer more like a dyin' man. Jaundice, wrinkles, face with that dopey look like sommun left you hangin' upside down too long— oh. Wait, no, ya just look like that to begin with. How 'bout that?" Brutus offered a sidelong glance and a sly grin, ducking past Seamus and back into the living room.

It took him a moment to understand that Brutus had made a joke at his expense, but he realized that that was as much of an apology as he would get. He wasn't quite pacified, but at least he could content himself with the silent understanding they'd come to. Brutus was, indeed, only looking out for his younger cousin, and he didn't want to push Seamus before he'd found his way back to himself. While Seamus could never imagine being quite the same (killing people— he'd never listened when his father had whispered moralities to him late at night as a child, but now he understood), but he was functioning again, and that was good enough. Now that they both understood this, Seamus felt it was prudent to "test" his own waters. Feeling robbed of any proper fun, he tackled his older cousin to the ground with a mighty thump that shook the pictures on the coffee table. Given an inch, taking a mile. Brutus let out an unmanly noise of surprise and found himself pinned underneath Seamus' weight. "At least I could still get girl, come death 'r age. However you, my friend, are one sorry piece o'— ay!"

With that, having no worries for his younger cousin to hold him back, Brutus threw the younger man off his back, engaged him in a healthy dose of violent wrestling. Just like old times. For the next ten minutes, all that could be heard were the sounds of their struggles and banter shouted over the din. After a while, they noticed a faint tapping underneath them, and the strenuous wails of Mrs. O'Shannon, an elderly woman who lived below them, to keep it down, it was almost the day of the Lord! Pausing to take in the words, they broke apart, laughing uproariously.

"Ah, Jaysus. C'mon, we should get goin' before tha poor woman has a heart attack. If anyone got up to it like that, I'd be worried, too," Brutus said, standing and straightening his clothes. Seamus pulled himself up by the couch and clapped his cousin on the back.

"Aye. Besides, no reason to tire ya out before Clare has a go at ya."

"Asshole. She hasn't got nothin' on me!"

"She has everythin' on you, mate."

They floo'd to the Dunne farm, ducking through the fireplace to see that the Christmas celebration, long a tradition amongst the family and nearby town, was well under way.

Whenever it was time to plant or harvest the fields, most members of the family took leave from their jobs and pitched in. This had been the way since two of the children of the farm's original owner, Ethan Dunne, moved out of the house thirty years ago. They'd been tied to their home, and they loved their mother and father far too much to leave them alone with only the youngest daughter, Einin, to help. They would bring their children, teaching them the ways of the Irish countryside and large Irish families, before returning to their homes in far-off towns. Seamus' childhood memories were filled with the smell of the fields in the early morning, fresh with dew, and the sun rising over the hills in the east; with the soft fleece of sheep yet unsheered, following compliantly after him on his toy broom that hovering three feet above the ground. He remembered fondly playing with his cousins, Brutus and Clare from his mother's sister, Einin, and Dillon and Liam from his mother's brother, Kevan. (Though, progressively less so with Liam.) He remembered the prodding of lambs' heads as they vied for his attention, nudging at his hands and legs, and the tired ache of his muscles every night after his parents had deemed him old enough to help out properly. Very prominently, he remembered the incident where, after becoming entranced by the stories spun by Einin of faeries and their magical hijinks, he'd adventured off into the countryside to find the Hill of Tara, only to nearly be kidnapped by the damned things. Good times, surely.

Point being, the connection to the farm was ingrained in them. There would never be a time when 'home' did not simultaneously mean where the grass grew high and where the streetlight flickered, when it did not mean the sweat on your brow as much as it meant the lazy afternoons spent huddled around the telly.

As if that wasn't enough, the Dunnes were uproarious people. When they found reason to celebrate, they did it for all that they were worth, and anything less than a gathering of twenty or more people was not a party. On holidays, everybody was invited to come and call the Dunne farm home as much as the Dunnes did and, as the years dragged on, it had become tradition for friends of friends to invite themselves when they were without plans for the night. They welcomed one and all, ever the more if they did not have a family to spend the night with. After all, what was magic for? Not that they were conspicious about their spells. The Dunes were law-abiding people, if one disregarded the odd disruption of peace in the local pub.

There was only one rule, on days like this, and that was that everyone, no matter how young or how old, how rich or how poor, had to either bring food or help in the kitchen. Often enough, the (very serious) matter of alcohol was argued out amongst the men of the household weeks in advance, but when the sun peeked over the hill on Christmas Eve, the stoves were going full-blast and the pots were already filled to the brim. The wizards and witches of the family would spend the early morning enchanting the house, enlarging it where they felt they could get away with it and fashioning the backyard into something of a dance hall, sans the hall itself. (Funnily enough, Einin and her husband found themselves to be rather handy with their wands, and every year they had a light-hearted competition to see whose charms could win out over the other's without becoming a spectacle of magic. More than once the whole thing had had to be rearranged, solely for the sake of making the place presentable. They were nothing if not enthusiastic.)

Everyone had a place in the kitchen, and, somehow, without ever compiling a list or even greeting anyone at the door, the matriarch of the house, Mamó Nicola, always knew who was fit to work in the kitchen and when. Nicola, Einin, and Seamus' mother, Ailbhe, all spearheaded the cooking efforts, and were something of an intimidating triple tag team. Nobody got away without helping, not even the kids. Ailbhe had been known to have small babies throw spices into the food, solely for the sake of keeping tradition.

Knowing that the first people they should greet were their mothers, Seamus and Brutus both headed for the kitchen, weaving through the small crowd milling about the house. When they reached their destination, it was not without some awe that they beheld the spectacle before them. Apparently, Einin was in charge of the kids in the kitchen while Nicola and Ailbhe were off doing something else. A group of about five children, ranging from ages four to eight, were engaged in what looked to be a vicious flour war. There was not a surface untouched by white. In the background Einin stood, curled into herself slightly as she laughed.

(Seamus took a moment, once again, to note how blatantly similar the Dunne women were while being so very different. Nicola was like a queen, Ailbhe a stern, immovable obstacle, Einin a small faerie in her own right, and Clare a rambunctious woman of the world. And yet, there was a collection of little things, little quirks that they all shared. For one, they all had the same laugh, the same side-splitting, full-body laugh that almost forced you to join in, even if you didn't know what they were laughing at. Their emotions overtook them. When they were playing a trick, they smiled with their eyes, corners upturning and wrinkles appearing around the edges. When they cried, and really, truly cried, they were unabashed of their tears, but all the same wiped them away with their narrow wrists, almost shielding themselves behind their arms. And when they were angry, their brows knotted and their lips pressed into a firm line, whole body clenching with restraint. It was like looking at a reflection of a reflection whenever Seamus remembered these little things, and it filled him with such an inexplicable fondness for his family that he could barely contain it.)

"Ma, you've made a right mess of this place!" Brutus laughed, trying (and failing) to dodge a handful of flour tossed his way.

"Nonsense!" Einin chirped, jumping into her son's arms. She placed a small kiss on his brow and stepped back, clapping her hands. "Alright, we've been caught red-handed, kiddos! Quick, run away before Mamó and Ailbhe come back! Else dey'll eat ya right up!"

Squealing good-naturedly, the children raced out of the room, flour bouncing off of their clothing and onto the floor behind them. In the split seconds when the only eyes to watch her were of the magical persuasion, she whipped out her wand and cleansed the room in a blink of an eye. Done, she tucked the rowan wood away and turned back to her son, grinning brightly. "Dere, now, don't go tellin' me mam, else she'll eat me right up!" Almost as if noticing Seamus for the first time, she pulled him into a tight embrace that spoke volumes of her affection, placing a twin kiss in his forehead, as well. "You look well," she whispered to him before pulling away. Seamus knew that that was all he would hear from his aunt on the matter tonight, and for that he was grateful.

"Are ya ready to help us out, boys?" she asked, finally. "'M afraid I might have set us a bit behind, and I know fer a fact ya didn't bring anydin' wit' ya." She beckoned them forward, snatching up a rag and tossing it to her son. "Ya tackle dose dishes like ya tackled my innocent little nephew earlier," she said slyly, tapping at a bruise she saw forming along Seamus' cheek bone, "And you, m'dear, come and help wit' the soup. 'S the one Ailbhe makes every year. Ya know it."

And indeed Seamus did. His mother had been teaching him how to make this soup since he was seven years old, and he knew it by heart. Her everlasting efforts to teach her only child to sustain himself had spurred a healthy attention to cooking, and it was not lost on his family what a help he could be, and was, every year in the kitchen. Brutus, however, was only really as helpful as the dishes he washed (though he was fast— Seamus would give him that). It was a wonder that the man hadn't had a heart attack from the sheer amount sodium in his canned-food, take-out diet. How anybody could go from their family cooking, and the food at Hogwarts, to pure preservatives was beyond him, but he never dared question it besides cooking their meals when he was in London. Brutus had always been known to eat anything you put in front of him. In fact, Clare had once dared him to eat a worm, and eat it he had. With gusto.

It was some time before Nicola and Ailbhe returned to the kitchen, looking for all the world as if they'd just tackled some Herculean task set upon them by the gods of old. Simultaneously, Seamus and Brutus sent each other looks of mild confusion, but neither spoke up.

"Ya'd t'ink dat wit' yer da out dere dey'd behave, but 's like dey're a bunch o' children," Nicola complained, rolling her eyes.

"Aye, well, dere's not'in' to do 'bout it now. Dey'll do as dey will, but come midnight, dey'll behave. Dey always do," Ailbhe soothed, striding to her son in quick, easy steps. As if she hadn't just been engaged in conversation, she enveloped her son in an almighty hug that spoke of comfort and worry and care and frustration, all at once. She squeezed him tight, burying her face in her son's shoulder, and Seamus laughed quietly, turning from the pot before him and into his mother's arms. "'M not goin' nowhere, mam," he joked. Ailbhe lifted her head and gave him a hard stare. There was a solid moment of silence, in which his mother searched his face for something that he did not know. Seeming to find what she was looking for, she nodded. "Ya'd better not. If yer not der for mass, ye'll be sleepin' wit' da sheep."

Seamus smiled, bewildered, and turned back to the soup. "I hear ya." He felt Nicola pat him on the head, and he ducked, looking over his shoulder at her. She offered only a smile, and then the duties of the kitchen were in full swing once more.

For the third (but certainly not last) time that night, Seamus took a moment to appreciate how truly wonderful his family could be. While he often found them to be somewhat overbearing and oppressive in their beliefs (if his mother was anything to go by), and it was not lost on him the reservations each seemed to have in regards to his health (they knew that if he came back from Hogwarts at all, he would be leagues better than when he'd left, but that didn't stop the way they all watched him out of the corners of their eyes), they were still making an effort not to make a fuss. So much was left unsaid but understood, hours of awkwardness shaved away. If only the entire world shared their dynamic.

It was a good hour before Seamus and Brutus were shooed out of the kitchen, Brutus' purposeful griping and scraping of the dishes grating on the women's ears. Einin snatched the dish towel out of his hands and snapped it at him, telling him to go fetch his sister from upstairs. "Silly girl's all a'flutter 'cause some boy from town's 'ere tonight. You wouldn't believe her fuss dis mornin'!" Ailbhe swatted her son's hands away from the pot on the stove and told him to follow after his cousin. ""S almost done, and dat boy's da last one we need tryin' ta calm Clare down. Send in yer da while yer off."

And so they went, calling greetings to the people of the town and being stopped by old friends from muggle primary. Like always, it would take them ten times longer than necessary to complete a task, but such was their way, surrounded by friends and family. Everybody had something to say, and neither of them minded much. If their mothers and grandmother had wanted the tasks completed swiftly, they would have done them themselves.

By the time they'd traipsed upstairs and down the familiar hall of their childhood guest bedrooms, they'd spoken with at least seven people each, reacquainting themselves and sharing the events of their last year in detail. (Or, rather, what detail they could. Statute of Secrecy and all that.) Coming upon Clare's room, they noticed small flashes of light shining through the crack underneath her door and, sending each other a look, they barged in, content to risk their heads for the safety of their home. Seamus wasn't the only one known for his fantastic ability to muck up spells. The woman was just as well tucking away her wand for good, Brutus often joked, but she was much too in love with magic to give up her experimentations.

Clare stood in the middle of her room, furniture in an everlasting state of disarray, outfits of all sorts spinning rapidly about her, matching and mismatching and switching seemingly at random. Her contemplation of two dresses paused before her was interrupted, the clothing jumping back into the fray as Clare directed her attention to her brother and cousin. Rather than becoming irate at their sudden appearance, she simply looked put-upon and frustrated. The fact that they'd gone well over ten seconds without succumbing to bodily harm at her hands was enough to clue them in on how very distressed she was.

"C'mon, if ya like 'im so much, it doesn't really matter what ya wear. 'E'll just be tuggin' it off anyway."

Seamus punched his cousin squarely on the bone of his shoulder. Clare shot him an angry glare. "Yer filthy," she spat, turning her back on them as she returned to her clothing.

"Ya know he don' mean it, Clare," Seamus piped up, stepping further into the room. He picked his way across the messy floor to sit on the very edge of the woman's bed. "Ya'll look lovely in anythin' ya pick, an', besides— they're only three dresses in that whirlwind fit fer church. Pick the blue one. It's shorter."

Clare glared over her shoulder at her cousin, upset that he would dare tell her what to wear. But, bringing the three dresses she knew he meant in front of her, she realized that he was right. It was frilly and decent enough for church, but flattering enough for her to feel comfortable in her attempts to whoo the boy. She huffed, snatching the dress and sending the rest of her clothes neatly into her closet, turning on Seamus with an angry stare. "Since when're ya in right enough mind ta be helpin' me get a date? Ya looked like sommun sent yer dead body home as a joke when I saw ya last."

"Tha's what I said!" Brutus shouted, only to be ignored.

Seamus knew from the gleam in her eye that this was their square-off, and she wouldn't make it so easy as everyone else. She would make him suffer for the worry he'd caused her, and the words she'd used were not to be taken lightly. Clare'd been taking care of Seamus all her life. He was the baby of the family, and the idea that she'd lost him to some war behind closed doors must have been horrifying. He sighed, giving her an apologetic smile. "Since now. I can't be havin' you hidin' out up here all night just 'cause you're so indecisive that ya can't put on new clothes fer the day. Even I could do that."

She pursed her lips, seeming to be deciding on whether it was worth it to kill him then or later. Apparently deciding on the latter, she shoved him off her bed and out of her room, bumping her brother into the door frame as she went. "Alright, alright, off wit' you bot'! 'M comin' down in just a moment!" In a minor show of retaliation, she kicked her brother forward with her foot, pushing him into the adjacent wall before shutting and conspicuously locking her door. "Coward!" he called. Then, remembering himself, he ran downstairs, unwilling to have his sister give him his welcome-home ass kicking so early in the evening. Seamus laughed, following shortly after.

He made his way into the backyard, searching for what was sure to be the spectacle of his father. The man strove to entertain, and if Seamus didn't respect him as much as he did, he might even be embarrassed of the man. Currently, he was attempting once again some poor imitation of river-dancing with his brother-in-law. Einin's husband, Cillian, danced next to him, laughing uproariously with a beer in his hand while Seamus's uncle Kevan and Daideo Ethan egged them on, clapping a beat. Some of the others of the town had joined in, and soon there was a mass of slightly intoxicated men falling over each other as they attempted to move their feet quickly and efficiently. Now Seamus understood why his mam and Mamó had returned to the kitchen complaining. He laughed, going around to the back of the circle and tapping his father's shoulder. He looked back, bewildered, but stopped his dancing and turned to his son, throwing up his arms in a celebration. "Boyo! Ya've come back ta us! 'Bout bloody time," he said, wrapping an arm around Seamus.

"Howya, da," he greeted back. "Mam's lookin' fer ya in tha kitchen. 'Course, that was an hour ago."

"Aye, I hear ya," his father laughed, clapping his son's back and starting for the house.

"Where ya goin', Thomas?" Cillian called. "We're just gettin' started!"

"Me mam called him in," Seamus told his uncle, and the older man snickered mischievously.

"We might be in trouble fer causin' such a ruckus so early on. Nicola was out earlier, scoldin' us. Right lot of scoundrels, we are." He winked conspiratorially, pulling away from the circle to talk with his nephew. "How've ya been, boyo? Didn't hear from ya last summer. Got a bit worried. Sarah's been askin' after ya."

Seamus grinned. Sarah was his longtime friend from muggle primary, as well as his first kiss. They were almost mirrors of each other, as far as their attempts at charm and fleeting relationships went, except that Sarah received both more success and more backlash. The drama that resulted from her escapades had created a measure of distance between herself and the community, and she often relied on Seamus to play the role of every friend she did not have, to take care of her like all of her boyfriends had neglected to. He'd never felt put out by it, however, learning to love Sarah with all his heart. The only question was the platonic nature of that love at any given time.

"Ay, careful now," Cillian warned, amused. "I hear she was comin' tonight. Look out fer her. Clare said she broke it off wit' whatever poor sod she was datin' a while back."

"Don' worry, uncail. I'm back, I'm fine, an' I don't reckon she's a girl I can't handle. I'll see ya later, a'right? Try not to get too fluthered before dinner."

Cillian laughed again at his nephew, nodding his consent before returning to the circle of men acting like schoolboys.

Several hours went away in such a fashion: talking (catching up, joking, arguing), dancing (nobody knew what they were doing, and if they did, they pretended they didn't. It was all in the fun of the fall, and Seamus thought that there would be no difference of the floor had been made of ice instead of stone), drinking (oh, the varieties offered him), and running errands for whoever asked him to. Twice Seamus and Brutus were sent off to the town to buy one thing or another, and an immeasurable amount of times had either of them been sent on missions to dispatch, retrieve, or pass a message along to another member of the family. By the time the clock struck nine, the two boys retreated upstairs, sitting on the top steps and laughing at the ridiculousness of it all.

"'Ave ya seen the bloke Clare's cartin' around? Looks ta me like a bit of a specky git," Brutus said, leaning back against the white plaster walls, a weeping Kilkenny dangling from his fingers.

Seamus snorted. "Yer ma had me chat 'im up when she was called to the kitchen. Seemed fine, I s'ppose. Not the sharpest, but I'm not exactly expectin' the man ta start talkin' politics."

"Yea, well," he replied, taking a sip of his beer. "Why's it always that yer the one sent on these secret missions o' there's? 'S like yer their secret agent. Not like they couldn't do a better job, but yer the only one with a woman's touch 'round here."

Seamus gave his cousin an incredulous look, shaking his head. He wasn't about to throw him down the stairs. "Just 'cause I'm not a callous ass."

"An' ya know how ta cook."

"My bad, forgot I'm s'pposed ta be eatin' swill at all times o' the day."

"Also got kidnapped by fairies. It that don't say somethin'—"

"Oi, yer always on about that, 's almost like yer jealous. Obviously Oireland just likes me better 'an you."

"Fuck off!"

Seamus snickered.

"If ya boys don' mind me interruptin' this soul searchin' chat o' yers," Einin called from the foot of the stairs, "Dinner's ready an' we need help carryin' it out an' settin' da table."

"I hear ya," they replied in union, standing up and making their way down. Einin smiled, fond, and disappeared, likely back into the kitchen. They followed right behind.

The tables were placed, five length-wise, down the extended version of what had once been a moderately-sized dining room. It was set with several layers of lacy white tablecloth, sweeping down to brush against the seats of several dozen mismatched chairs. Brutus and Seamus were sent to set it with dishes and silverware, arguing, for a short while, over the "proper order" of the utensils. That was, of course, until Clare can strutting in, shouting loudly that they were both idiots and setting their mistakes straight. "Ya'd t'ink ya boys'd know by now, but a'course not!" she cried, lamenting with with a dramatic flare every woe she seemed to have against their existence. They simply rolled their eyes, watching as Ailbhe bumped her to the side with her hips as she came walking through with a large pot in her hands, very careful not to spill. Clare stumbled, shouting her aunt's name in surprise, and Seamus noted the up-turns of his mother's eyes.

"Come on, come on, go get everydin' from da kitchen, ya slackers."

In a matter of ten minutes they had the entire table set, prepared for a feast, and the kitchen crew eyed it with pride. It wasn't easy, to put this sort of thing together, and they all expected hearty thanks when their guests piled out for mass. They always received it.

Dinner was spent in much the same manner as the rest of the day had been, minus the dancing (though it could be noted that Mathew Dugan had stood up to try and aid in the telling of how this man had treated him at a bar, only for his wife to pull him back into his seat. Brutus and Clare shared knowing looks. Seamus felt mildly lost) and with the addition of prayer and an added sense of merriment.

Halfway through dinner, Brutus, who sat beside him, and Clare, who sat adjacent, both simultaneously gave him a swift hit for his attention, Brutus to his arm and Clare to his shin. He jumped, startled and stinging, and bumped the table, only to receive a glare from his mother three seats down. He gave an apologetic smile before turning to both cousins. "What?"

"Sarah's been starin' at ya fer de last ten minutes or so, idiot," Clare told him, a mild tone of reprimand in her voice. Seamus gave her a look, as if to say, why are you so terrible?, and turned to look down the table. He almost immediately met bright green eyes, shining at him from with a wry sense of amusement that told him she'd seen everything his cousins had done, and she knew why, too. Blinking a few times, not actually believing that she had, in fact, shown up (he didn't know why— it wasn't as if his uncle was a liar), he sent her, too, a smile. And she threw one back, mouthing a silent message. "After dinner," it said. As if he'd been inflated with helium while his back was turned, Seamus felt suddenly lightweight, excited and nervous all at once to speak to the girl who'd dominated so much if his non-magically related free time. He nodded consent and turned back to his food.

After a few moments of silence on Seamus' part, during which his cousins obviously expected him to say something, Brutus gave him another nudge, friendlier this time, and accompanied by a sly grin. "Aye, and what'd she say?"

Seamus shoved a spoonful of potatoes in his mouth and glared rebelliously up at the older man. "Wha' d'ya mean, 'what'd she say?' Ya saw 'er as well as I did."

"But that's the thing. I never learned how ta read lips."

"Half the reason he never got ta come on secret Hogsmeade trips with me," Clare chimed.

"Always figured it was fer the girls of the family anyhow." This time, Brutus was on the recieving end of a covert double-team hit, and he muffled his yelp with his hand, glaring.

"Ya see, that's where you're tryin' ta make it seem as if I never got more girls'n you, Brutus," Seamus said, chewing his food thoughtfully. "Yer jealous again."

"Oo, I'd say he's right!" Clare said, taking a sip of her wine and eyeing her brother from over the rim of the glass.

All three of them knew very well why Brutus had never held much interest in pursuing women like his younger cousin did: he simply didn't have the time. Between school, work, and his dedication to the farm, he'd never felt the need to devote more energy to wooing girls that he'd never have a lasting interest in. He believed in the sort of relationships that came of love and ended in marriage, and while he did not spurn Seamus' actions, he did not believe in them. All the same, he was rather sensitive about it, likely from being teased relentlessly by his housemates at Hogwarts. "Ya, well at least I've got somethin' goin' fer me," Brutus huffed, propelling himself forcefully against the back of his chair.

As much as Seamus was loathe to admit it, even to himself, that jibe had hurt a little, piercing the thin shield that coated his pride like a dagger through a viel. He knew, very well, that while he had nothing, both Brutus and Claire had the farm to fall back on. Despite Brutus no longer living on it, his every day was planned for it's sake, and Clare had no reservations with the idea that she was either dying in that farmhouse or being dragged out of it by a man. Seamus couldn't imagine himself staying there, as much as he loved and cared for it. Too much of his father was in his blood. But what exactly did that mean for him? He had those niggling ideas, of course, flung into the back corners of his mind, bit he never had figured out a concrete plan for his future. He had nothing.

(Some time in the years previous, he'd dreamed up the idea of owning a pub, some cross between magical and not, serving any man or woman who came walking in. He could add potions to the drinks, things appropriate and safe, and of course never handed off to a muggle without proper, and he meant this poor sod's 'bout to off himself if he doesn't get a bit o' help here proper, cause. It wasn't very well-thought out, and he'd never gotten into planning for it, but it was still there, offering some solace in moments like this, but not nearly enough.)

It was rare that anyone in their family ever took insults to heart, as they'd been raised with hits and kisses offered in equal measures to show affection, taught to toe the line of propriety with family and friends. While they usually behaved, there was always that one line that went too far, the passive aggressive joking that ended in a brawl. It was Christmas Eve, however, and Seamus had long ago learned to turn his resentments inward when the situation did not call for immediate retaliation. (Given him reason to dislike a person, and he would. Give him reason to dislike his friends and family, and he would dislike himself.)

Seamus returned to his food with such brooding force that his cousins were startled into silence. He knew by the conspicuous lack of baited words sent his way that Brutus felt that he'd said something wrong, and he knew by the holes being stared into his head that the Dunne women had caught wind of his distress, but like a petulant child Seamus said nothing, his resentment for himself turning into resentment for his family. If it was any other year but this, they would have taken a stand against his behavior the second he displayed it, shaming him for not acting like the man he claimed it be. If it was any other year but this, they would not be restrained by the outrageous notion that Seamus was some fragile thing that needed to be watched over. He wasn't exactly making it easy for them to think differently, of course, but he cared not. Not even their lack of words on the subject made up for their, he thought, unwarranted behavior.

When the first guests began standing and thanking their hosts, Seamus shot an inquisitive glance down the table, seeking eye contact with Sarah. It took a moment, but eventually she looked up, and there was a split second of silent communication before she stood, smiling graciously and reaching across the table to shake hands with Seamus' grandfather, Ethan. That confused Seamus, a bit—that she seemed unescorted and the personal guest of his grandfather— but he forced himself to be patient and wait. Suddenly, the energy of the room changed from the quiet lull of inactivity to the busy farewells of a large, well-acquainted crowd, and there was lots of buzzing and hand shaking and patting on the back. One would think they'd make less of a fuss, given that they'd see each other all at mass soon enough and in the pub soon after, but that was certainly not the case. Seamus turned to leave the room, knowing that it would be easier to catch Sarah on the way out, and was met with the awkward wall of a guilty-looking Brutus.

"Look, Shay—" he began. Seamus cut him off.

"Don't. It was nothin'. I'll see ya at mass." With that, Seamus brushed past his cousin, feeling slightly off-balance for being so curt but thinking no more on it. His curiosity over why his good friend was there had quickly turned to a burning concern, and he needed out of that farmhouse before he began to choke on it.

Just like he figured, the woman was waiting at the front door, off to the side of the porch and in the middle of shrugging on her light jacket. Seamus went to her, giving a quick, earnest hug, and pulled back, holding her elbows and giving her a good look-over. It had been well over two years since he'd properly seen her, and even then it had been fleetingly. He noticed with a start that she had a familiar look in her eyes, and while he couldn't quite place it, it made his gut sink to see it in a place where he could only accept amusement, honesty, and blatant affection. Of course, her lips were up-turned, and her body language obviously spoke of having missed him, but there was something off, and it made a fierce protection flare in his soul.

"Sarah Hawthorn," he said quietly, dropping his arms to his sides. "Yer a sight fer sore eyes. I missed ya."

Sarah shot a glance behind him, momentarily distracted by some short of scuffle as people filed out of the house, but quickly returned her gaze to his face. She, too, seemed to be studying him, and he wasn't sure if she liked what she saw. "I should 'ope so, Seamus Finnigan. Been lookin' fer ya all year. Didn't t'ink ya'd be goin' back ta dat boardin' school in Britain. Did you get in trouble 'r somedin?"

Seamus smiled, though he could tell from the quirk of one delicate brow that Sarah saw the sardonic humor in it. "Ya could say that. Some serious, ah, policy business mucked up last year. Bunch o' us went back fer missed credits." It wasn't an outright lie, and he'd been telling one version of it or another all night, so it was comfortable enough not to feel sour in his mouth. His family had never exactly gained notoriety for their cunning wit and deception, but Sarah must have been so used to his constant fibbing regarding school that she asked nothing more.

"Why were ya lookin' fer me? Besides the fact I wasn't 'round all summer," Seamus asked, attempting to strike at the source of his worry without actually knowing what it was. After a beat, Sarah averted her eyes, suddenly shy and unwilling to carry on the conversation. Seamus tilted his head, bending down into her line of vision, concern flaring three times over. She looked behind her, searching in the dark for the porch bench that she knew must have been there, and sat, motioning him over. This felt suddenly so much more serious, and long gone were any ideas of lighthearted frivolity.

"Well?" he eventually prompted.

"Ya missed a lot while ya were gone," she whispered, voice cracking in the middle. Seamus shifted closer, offering the comfort of touch to her slightly quivering shoulders.

"What happened?"

It took the petite girl several moments to collect herself, gathering both breath and courage. "Y'know how me mam was getting sick, a while ago?"

Dread fell like a lead weight into Seamus' stomach. He didn't want to hear this— he didn't want to hear that any harm had befallen the mother of his longest-lasting friend, didn't want to hear of more tragedy and pain that he could have helped assuage, had he only been strong enough to shoulder his own. Hating himself in that moment, Seamus flinched, but he drew closer until their shoulders and arms aligned, side-by side. "Aye."

"Well," Sarah began, leaning into him for comfort, "She passed 'way while ya were gone. We buried her up in Inishowen, where she— ah— where she grew up, an'— s'cuse me." She cleared her throat, and though Seamus couldn't see it in the darkness, he knew that her eyes were filling with tears.

All that time, while he'd been brooding and disconnecting, hidden away in the recesses of his own mind or off playing student in an old enchanted castle, Sarah had been here, grieving her mother almost completely alone. They had never really gotten along, Mrs. Hawthorn disapproving of her daughter's conduct and the boys she occupied her time with (Seamus, in particular, had seemed to be the bane of her existence), but Seamus knew from long talks and helpful clue-ins from Clare that Sarah had looked up to her mother very much, always striving for her approval despite knowing that she would never receive it. He could only imagine her pain— what if Sarah's mother had passed on, leaving her daughter feeling inadequate and bereaved? Add that to her sparse close relatives and distant father, and Seamus couldn't imagine that there had been much support. He understood instantly, then, why Ethan had invited her, and why Cillian had learned from Clare, of all people, about Sarah's relationship status. Clare had a heart as big as the sky, and though she was rather hard-pressed to show it, her compassion could drive her to greater feats than her ambition to prove herself ever could. Seamus had no doubt that Clare would befriend Sarah in her time of need, but... the fact that she hadn't said anything to him about it was frustrating.

Then again, maybe she had. Maybe those days when she'd walked gingerly into his darkened room to find him face down in the mattress and unresponsive, only to talk quietly to him in an attempt to draw him out, had been spent accounting her tales of Sarah's plights. If that was indeed the case, Seamus felt no reason not to slam his face into a wall until he no longer had to worry about shaming himself by showing it.

He slung an arm around the quivering girls' shoulders, whispering heartfelt apologies and comforts once he recognized her quiet sobbing for what it was. There had been many a summer where Seamus had come home to comfort Sarah, heart recently broken by one boy or another, and so he was rather familiar with the situation, if not necessarily the extent of Sarah's grief. He'd never felt put out by it— quite the contrary. He was honored to be so trusted by her to stay that sort of constant, despite having left her for a term at Hogwarts once again. He didn't feel like he deserved to be friends with such a wonderful woman, but, he acknowledged mournfully, the rest of her friendships had always been rather fleeting. He seemed to be the only one that had stayed with her so long. He hated that.

"Da, he, ah, fell inta drinkin', as it were," she continued, haltingly. It was obvious how difficult it was to tell him this, but she seemed determined, and Seamus was willing to stay sitting there for as long as it took to soothe her. "Wasn't much fer it. He loved her more 'an anydin'. Even me."

"Don't say that," Seamus scolded, no bite to his words.

"'S true an' ya know it," she countered, curling into herself all the more. "He quit his job and went off somewhere. I haven't seen him in months. I thought he'd gone ta his brothers', but, uh, no one's... seen him."

"I'm sure he'll come home," Seamus said, attempting to be reassuring.

After a moment, voice suddenly hard, Sarah replied: "If he does, it'll be t'an empty house an' just enough in his account fer a call." The resentment in her voice startled Seamus, and he gave her a look, though he knew she couldn't see it.

"What d'ya—"

"'M movin' away," she said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing on Earth. "Me aunt lives in Germany. After she came fer tha fun'ral an' saw what shape da was in, she offered to take me in. It was mighty kind o' her, an' o'course I accepted."

Seamus' face was contorted into a look of confusion, and the feel of it made him think that it would be comical in any situation but this. "But you've lived here all yer life." The thought of Sarah traipsing off to Germany with an aunt he'd hardly ever heard about concerned him immensely. She'd always had such a hard time dealing with people who took their first impressions of her to heart, especially in their close-knit Irish community. Maybe the people of whatever new town she entered would be different, but Seamus was not so optimistic.

"Yer the only one left here, Seamus," she said, snaking an arm under his and around his back. He could feel her resting her face on his shoulder, the damp chill of her tears seeping through his shirt. The curve of her smile played against his skin, and he shivered. "No one else is willin' ta deal wit' me. 'Ve never liked it much here, an' I always figured I'd find my way out. Ya remember that one summer, four years ago, when John McNamara broke my heart?" How could he? She'd cried in his room for three days. "I got obsessed wit' travellin' the world after dat, found all dose maps and made so many plans. I wanted ta take ya ta Russia after we got outta school, an' go see the Kremlin. Russian ballets."

"I told ya there was no way in hell I'd see a ballet," he cut in, quiet and almost reverent in the face of these memories. No matter what had leaked from his magical world into this one, he'd always been captivated by Sarah's capacity for emotion, and her inexplicable ability to jump right back up after she'd gotten herself hurt. He was almost a little jealous, to be honest.

"Aye, dat ya did. I tried ta convince ya, but you just laughed. I figured we could go everywhere else instead. We'd get lost a lot, and we'd end up campin' out more of'n dan not, and we'd make friends from all 'round. We'd spend every Sunday writin' letters to all of 'em. I made ya take me explorin' 'round Ireland, fer a while, too, just 'cause I was itchin' to spend as much time away from town as I could. But then you went off to dat school again, an' I had no one to plan for."

Again, there was something deeper there, a buried resentment that had festered for a long time. Seamus wondered how often she'd cursed him, just like every other boy she'd ended up coming in contact with. The only difference was, he always came back.

"It's amazin' how good yer family's been, but I can't stay here. Not alone. An' I'm not waitin' fer ya ta come back long 'nough fer me ta whisk ya 'way. We'll keep in contact, o'course— hopefully better dan when ya go 'way ta school— and it'll be just like it always was. You'll keep me up ta date— an' ya know ya will, else ya'll have both Clare an' me on yer back—"

Seamus let out a startled laugh, not quite realizing that Clare had gotten so close as to talk with Sarah about him, though he supposed he should have expected it. The last thing he needed was two of the most influential woman in his life angry at him.

"—An' I'll keep ya up ta date, too. And we'll visit. We'll visit all the time, once I get da money, an' maybe, ah..." she faltered suddenly, as if her train of thought had been charging on far too fast for her to think of what she was saying. There were several moments of startled silence, in which Seamus was sure she would be blinking her eyes rapidly, so he nudged her, prompting her to continue. The ensuing laugh was a little bittersweet, and a little heartbroken, and he wrapped his other arm firmly around her when she turned into his chest. After a moment of the embrace, she pushed at him, sitting back. "It was silly. I don' know why I even t'ought it, 'cause we've never quite made it work as anyt'in' more 'an dis. I, ehe, t'ought dat we could try, dough. Again. If ya wanted. But o' course ya wouldn't, 'cause—"

"Sarah Hawthorn, don't ya dare guilt yerself inta thinkin' it was anyone's fault. We never worked not 'cause we weren't wonderful together, but because I love ya too much ta ever hurt ya, and I've been what yer relationships do. We're best as we are now, and ta be completely honest, I'm not sure I could ever live up ta yer expectations of me. Maybe, when we're older, an' we are settled, it'll be different, but I don't see that happenin' any time soon." The words spewed out of Seamus' mouth before he could think about them, but they rang as true as anything else he could have said. He could hardly contain the love he felt for this girl, the affection and the attraction and the concern for her well-being, but there had always been something there that sabotaged any hope for an honest relationship. Maybe it had been the distance, which had alienated them physically, or the lies, which had alienated them emotionally. Neither was either of their faults, and merely a consequence of circumstance. Maybe it was the way Sarah was too afraid to lose him as her friend, and maybe it was the way Seamus was too afraid of falling off the pedestal she'd built for him in her mind. At any rate, Seamus knew that, on some level, this sudden fixation on a real relationship between them was an attempt to seek a comfort that Seamus was unwilling to give. He had no choice but to shoot her down. Otherwise, it would have been another case of the blind leading the blind into recovery, with one thinking the other could see.

He knew that what she needed was a new home with a new set of people, and an adult that was willing to love her and mentor her better than her parents ever had. A burning rage coiled in Seamus' gut at her father for daring to leave his daughter when she needed him most, but, at the same time, he realized the blatant hypocrisy. He couldn't hate the man for his grief, but he could damn well resent him, and hope that he never got his misguided hands back into Sarah's life. She would be better off without him. As for this aunt, he'd never heard of her, but if he ever had even an inkling that Sarah was being mistreated, he would not hesitate to start breaking some statutes for the sake of his friend, Azkaban be damned.

"I need ya ta promise me somethin', though," Seamus said, leaning forward until he found Sarah's face, cupping it in his hands. She leaned her forehead against his, humming a question. "Don't ya dare hold out fer me. I won't have yer lovely romanticism ruinin' any relationships ya might have. I'm not worth that, and ya're worth much more."

"I promise."

Seamus smiled and lifted his face to give her forehead a chaste kiss, dropping his hands to find hers. "Now, we'd better be off ta mass, 'r else we'll miss it. Mam threatened ta make me sleep wit' the sheep if I did."

He heard Sarah's laugh, like bells. There was still a deep, resonating sadness (he recognized the look he'd seen in Sarah eyes as grief, which his time at Hogwarts had made him so intimately familiar with), and he expected that, but her happiness seemed genuine. For that, Seamus was grateful. He would do anything for this girl's welfare, especially after his inexcusable absence, and if he were ever the reason for her pain, he would never forgive himself.

"Ailbhe'll do it, too," she said, standing and pulling him with her.

"That she will. Do ya have yer car, Sarah? Because I know fer a fact Brutus wouldn't 'ave the mind to ride with Clare."

Sarah laughed again, quieter this time, and began to lead him across the porch, down the steps, and into the dirt driveway. There were still several cars idling, some turned off, and Seamus figured that they were safe enough. Her car, small and bright blue, was the farthest away, but he didn't mind. He could bask in the serenity of this tied loose end forever.

————————————————————————————

After the clock had struck midnight, after prayers for the dead had been prayed, after mass had been concluded, and after Seamus had said his farewells, he apparated smoothly to Inishowen in Northern Ireland, where Sarah had mentioned her mother being buried. It took several hours, but after much wandering and a little but of stumbling from the mild affects an alcoholic buzz, Seamus found the grave of the woman who he'd spent so much time taking Sarah away from. They'd shared many glares and many passive aggressive comments at gatherings, but Seamus liked to think that there was some sort of understanding between them. They only wanted the best for Sarah, and while their ideas of what was best for her were drastically different, the fact remained.

If there was nothing else Seamus could do but be a distant reassurance for Sarah, then at least he could make a direct request to her deceased mother. He did his best to transfigure some old branches into a small wreath of holly and ivy, placing it on the modest grave before sitting cross-legged before it. He squared his shoulders and sat up straight, folding his hands like he would have had he been confronted with her while she was alive.

"Mrs. Hawthorn," he said, feeling a bit silly talking to a gravestone but pushing the feeling away. He, thank the Lord, had nobody that he directly needed to grieve for, no graves that he had any right visiting after the war or placing a wreath upon, as per tradition. This, though, he felt was proper. Necessary, even.

"'M sorry fer not bein' there when ya passed. I shoulda been, should 'ave stayed in better contact wit' Sarah that year, but can ya really blame me?" He sighed, looking up at the sky. It was a deep, deep blue, contrasting harshly with the dots of light that shone from it, and he set his eyes on a small one to the west that twinkled dimly. It seemed to be talking to him. "I figure ya must know 'bout magic now yer up in heaven, aye? Musta been quite a shock— know it was fer me da. I bet ya said ta yerself that ya knew there was somethin' ya didn't like 'bout me. I promise you I never had any reason ta steer Sarah wrong, and I hope ya can see that from up there."

The chill of the air bit at Seamus' body through his dress shirt and slacks, the damp of the dirt reminding him that he really shouldn't be ruining his church clothes by sitting on the ground. It wasn't as if he wouldn't have scorched them eventually anyway, just because the world was cruel like that, and his lips tugged into a smile even as he shivered at the cold.

"I'm gonna assume ya know 'bout the war, too, and how Hogwarts was attacked. Yer probably sayin' that I still shoulda remembered Sarah anyway, an' I don't disagree, but... but I'm just hopin' ya'll forgive me, I guess. Sarah doesn't even have it in her ta think I did anythin' wrong. Even if ya don't forgive me, I don't mind."

It was getting progressively easier to speak to this idea of a woman that he hadn't really known very well, to the star in the sky that he quietly thought was his channel to heaven. There was no fumbling over his words, and for that he was grateful. He didn't need to give Mrs. Hawthorn, dead or not, any more reason to dislike him.

"I guess ya might be kinda angry that I'm here an' not yer daughter, but I know she'll be comin' up later today, after she gets some rest. She came ta tha farm, y'know, like yer family sometimes did. I wonder what she'll think when she sees that someone's already been here." He paused to yawn, watching as his breath crystallized in the air into vapory wisps. He was reminded of the way he'd taught Dillon to pretend to be a dragon when it was cold, and how they'd run around in the yard flapping their arms like leathery wings, roaring at any adults that opened the front door to ask after them. It had been years ago, maybe eleven or twelve, but it was still a prominent memory. He remembered wondering why more people weren't interested in magic like Dillon was, and he'd had to be reminded that muggles weren't supposed to know. It didn't matter, he'd argued. There was still the idea of magic that could have kept them captivated well beyond their childhood! But he supposed now that it was simply a matter of growing up, and Dillon was a special case.

"I want ta ask somethin' of you, Mrs. Hawthorn. I know I haven't got the right, but I just want ta ask that ya'll help watch over Sarah, an' maybe that ya'll watch over yer husband while makin' sure he never comes back. It wouldn't be good fer her if she saw him again, not unless he's better. She needs ta have someone ta teach her how ta face the world, like none o' us did. I'll do what I can, but I'm afraid I'll just banjax it. I need ta be well, too, an' while I'm gettin' there, I think, we need yer help. Or, I guess, any help ya can convince the Lord ta send down"

Exhaustion tugged at the back of Seamus' eyes, pulling him downwards from the back of his skull, and he thought that maybe his routine would be broken in the morning. Maybe he could afford sleeping in. He might have to. Hopefully his family wouldn't make a fuss when he didn't come down from the guest room late. Lord knew that he could only handle so much of their fussing before he gave up and left early for Hogwarts.

Seamus spent several more minutes at the graveyard, sitting and chatting with the gravestone of a woman who'd disliked him, the cold nipping at him from all sides. He apologized, and relayed tales of fancy and exploration that he'd experienced with Sarah. He supposed she'd want to know what they always got up to, if Seamus loved Sarah enough to come plea with her mother's grave, and though she might have already known from the whole being-in-heaven business (he had no doubts— she was devout), it must have counted for something that he was willing to share.

"Hmm. Maybe ya can help her find someone better than me to pine after, too. I bet ya were already plannin' on that, weren't ya? Never liked me much. It's okay. I honestly don't think I'd be good for her, but I always want to be there..." He paused. "That's how it is with all my friends, y'know? And it just tears be me pieces when I can't. I guess I should be ashamed that I'm askin' fer yer help, but it's fer the best, I think. Can't even know if yer hearin' this, or if ya can do anythin' anyway." Seamus sighed, voice hoarse from talking so much and so continuously all night. "Alright, I'll let ya rest. Happy Christmas, Mrs. Hawthorn. Say howya ta tha Lord fer me, will ya?" He said the last line ruefully, a sly smile tugging at his lips as he attempted to brush the dirt from his slacks. It was futile effort, but at least he gave it a try. Ailbhe would scold him heartily when he got back to the farm.

The next few days were spent with his family and with Sarah, chasing away his demons at the same time that he chased away hers. He hoped desperately that his efforts were not in vain, but he would never know if his prayers made a difference.

He left in the early morning from the farm, slipping downstairs and meeting his mother in the kitchen. She must have known from his subtle actions the night before that he was ready to leave and woke up early to make sure she caught him.

"I'm glad ya stayed, Seamus," she told him quietly, holding out a cup of tea, another sitting half empty on the counter.

He accepted it with a smile. "I dunno why ya expected me not ta."

The aging woman took her own cup, bringing it to her lips and regarding her son with a calculating look in her eyes. "'S safe at Hogwarts. Can't imagine ya have ta deal wit' family fussin' dere. I was so worried we wouldn't be good enough fer ya, or dat ya'd come home as broken as ya left."

Seamus flinched, having believed that maybe he would be able to leave without speaking so directly on the matter. "I didn't think I'd live ta see the day ya said Hogwarts was safe."

Ailbhe nudged her son with her shoulder as she passed him, moving to sit at the alcove in the corner of the kitchen. "We already had our talk 'bout dat, didn't we? Wasn't it enough ta shout me out da doors?"

"Wouldn'ta had ta if ya weren't so assured ya were right," he said, sitting beside her. There was no way he could slip quietly out of the house now.

"I was a Ravenclaw, dear. I always was right." There was that tone again, the one that spoke of regret and resentment and Seamus was damn tired of hearing it. He could understand his mother's woes— she'd wronged him time and time again in her attempts to keep him safe, and here was the result. There couldn't have been any way for her to keep him from being in the battle at Hogwarts, but she must have thought there was. He frowned.

"Don't ya dare beat yerself up 'bout this. I'm fine. I'm better. If I come home again ta you lot actin' like I'll break, I might just come unglued, but none o' this is yer fault. If anythin', it's mine. All ya can do is wait fer me ta come back again an' tut at me 'til I get a job like any other ma. Okay?" Seamus' tone was even, but there was a pleading lilt to it that he knew his mother must have picked up on.

She sighed, and gave him a weary smile. "I won't challenge ya no more. Go, my little Gryffindor, an' do what ya feel ya have ta before yer back."

No you aren’t allowed. Our children would be terrified. X’D

Ain't even a lovely lady that can come between a man and his mustache, no way no how.