arrogant boy;

michael:

Michael hesitated at that. Did you even know I’m not welcome in my home any more? He didn’t, actually, not that he’d have any reason to; outside of mandatory quidditch practices and the inevitable run-in in the common room Michael did his best to avoid Morag. He certainly wasn’t speaking to Megan, either, or Mandy, who would’ve been quick to fill him in, lest this exact situation happen. But no one had told him – it wasn’t his business, really, if he’d given it a second of thought – and Morag’s outburst gave him pause. But Michael already had a shovel in hand, and so he dug deeper.

“That’s it?” He glossed over her confession, eyes on her broom now laying on the ground. “One person questions you, calls you out, and suddenly you’re giving up? Speaks miles for your conviction, MacDougal.” Michael dragged his gaze back up to hers, eyes narrowed. “Sure, I’ll lead practice if you’re going to run away, but I’ll need that captain’s badge.” He held his hand out, eyebrows raised. Morag wouldn’t really hand it over, would she?

Morag looked at Michael’s outstretched hand. For a moment, she considered spitting in it, but she knew that she had to stop, that she had to take this fight elsewhere, that she had to get out before she cracked more and started crying, too. There was only so much shame she could handle. For another moment, she considered giving Michael the badge and telling him to keep it. Maybe it’d ease the guilt. Maybe it’d make her head a little lighter. She wanted to see try to manage the team, wanted to see him fail.

Part of her knew that Michael would be a better captain than her, and that was exactly why she kept the badge. She clutched it tight, her hand holding onto her robes, aching as the fabric scrubbed against her palm. “I’m not giving up. I’m just taking a day off. As if any of you haven’t done that before.” Her eyes fell on Michael’s hand again, before she looked back at him. She felt her throat grow tighter. She felt the tears coming and she would not give him the satisfaction of letting them fall before she’d turned around. “You’re not getting it until hell freezes over. Just do the training. I’ll see all of you same time tomorrow.” And with that, she turned on her heel and walked off, well aware that she was a bloody coward. 

( michael. )

Don’t laugh at me. Michael broke out into a full grin and nudged her back. “Yeah, cause you’re the spitting image of him.” Sally-Anne had a point though, as ridiculous as it sounded, and once he’d glanced over her shoulder to make sure no one was within earshot, he took a deep breath. “Okay, okay, but you have to promise you won’t laugh, alright?”  He thought of Seamus: the way his hands felt on Michael’s skin, softer than he’d ever thought possible; how he doesn’t flinch at the sight of Michael’s scars; the way his laughter rings out in the Room of Requirement, shattering any semblance of tension in D.A. meetings. 

Michael cleared his throat and looked back at Sally-Anne. He knew she wouldn’t understand half of what he said, but pressed forward regardless. “I want him to know he’s my life raft, too. That – that, fuck, that he’s all I can think about. When we’re together it’s bliss and when we’re apart agony, waiting for the next time I can see him, counting down the minutes.” He paused and scratched at the back of his neck. “Yeah – yeah, that’s the gist of it, anyway.”

“‘Course I won’t,” Sally-Anne assured him. She was quite used to people who were more reticent when it came to divulging their thoughts and true feelings, having tried rather hard to get Lisa to open up to her over the years. Needless to say, she was aware enough to know never to laugh when someone like Michael or Lisa finally did make themselves vulnerable. After he spoke, it took every ounce of effort in Sally-Anne, not to awww out loud — that seemed likely to only embarrass Michael. It was sweet, though, and she certainly hoped it would turn out that Seamus felt the same way in return. 

“Merlin, Michael, that’ll do it,” She responded, grinning at him. “I’m sure Seamus will be thrilled to hear that. And if he isn’t, feel free to blame me for giving you the advice to tell him,” Sally-Anne joked, then pausing for a moment before she continued. “Also, for what it’s worth, I really hope things work out between you two. You’d be so great together.”

The blurb of the newest radio broadcast came through, and it no longer left him surprised in the way that it did a few months ago. By now, there was nothing really left that could surprise Stephen. There was plenty that could infuriate him, or leave his stomach twisted in knots - but on some level, it was all to be expected. Perhaps he’d gone numb to it all, and that was the scariest thought of it all. He was sure it’d only be a matter of time until those radio broadcasts would alert them that one of their own classmates was dead - not missing, not imprisoned, but dead. 

He’d just turned the corner when he got an eyeful of Michael putting his hand into the wall. Stephen looked around, feeling like the people who had stopped to stare were intruding on something that wasn’t for them to see. He made a face, telling the gaggle of fourth years that were watching with wide eyes to get lost. When he realized Michael was speaking to him, he shifted uncomfortably on his heels, before sighing. “You think Snape really cares what these pictures are?” he muttered, before stepping closer to the frame. “I’d be surprised if he could see past that beak nose of his.” He glanced at the empty frame, before looking at Michael. “Is your hand okay?” 

He just barely registered Stephen shooing away the onlookers; like listening to something underwater – distorted, but still there. Michael’s eyes were fixed on his hand, already red and the first signs of ache blossoming under the skin. He laughed, but it was without humour, and swivelled his gaze towards Stephen. He felt half-present, one foot in the corridor and the other miles and miles away – with his parents, maybe, in London with the Ministry, or maybe at the bottom of the Thames, his lungs slowly filling water. 

“Never been better,” he all but choked out, glancing back at the ripped painting. “Maybe not cares, but he sure as shit would like an excuse to punish me. Wasn’t too happy I couldn’t give him any information on my – the fugitives.” Michael couldn’t bring himself to name them; it would make it too real, to present. “What d’you reckon happens to the subject when their painting gets busted? No one was in it when I – you know.”

“Am I done? Fucking hell, no — I’m not done.” Morag looked at the members of the team – of her team, now – and felt shame and anger rise, still. She wasn’t done. Something had snapped and she couldn’t go back until she’d burned herself out. She was like a toddler throwing a tantrum, but she’d been waiting years to throw this one. Maybe Michael deserved it. She knew he didn’t, but he was bloody asking for it and Morag would take any excuse to rage. For once, she wanted to give in.

“I’m not pointing fingers at bloody anyone, I’m just saying that I didn’t — I didn’t torture anyone, Michael! I didn’t! And I dealt with the consequences. I experienced that unforgivable curse multiple times, yeah? I did — and I know that’s nothing in your eyes and that I’ll never do right by you, but I said fucking no. I didn’t do it.” She took a deep breath. “Did you even know that I’m not welcome home any more? That I’ve cut ties with my family, because I — because I know that they’re wrong? Or, actually, they cut me out.” She snapped her mouth shut, took a shaky breath. She would not cry here, not in front of her team. And so, she threw her broom on the ground in stead. “You lead training today. I’m done. Next training, we’ll assemble an hour earlier to make up for lost time.”

Michael hesitated at that. Did you even know I’m not welcome in my home any more? He didn’t, actually, not that he’d have any reason to; outside of mandatory quidditch practices and the inevitable run-in in the common room Michael did his best to avoid Morag. He certainly wasn’t speaking to Megan, either, or Mandy, who would’ve been quick to fill him in, lest this exact situation happen. But no one had told him – it wasn’t his business, really, if he’d given it a second of thought – and Morag’s outburst gave him pause. But Michael already had a shovel in hand, and so he dug deeper.

“That’s it?” He glossed over her confession, eyes on her broom now laying on the ground. “One person questions you, calls you out, and suddenly you’re giving up? Speaks miles for your conviction, MacDougal.” Michael dragged his gaze back up to hers, eyes narrowed. “Sure, I’ll lead practice if you’re going to run away, but I’ll need that captain’s badge.” He held his hand out, eyebrows raised. Morag wouldn’t really hand it over, would she?

Fridays were slow. They were empty. There were no classes to distract Hannah from the reality of things and so she had to find her own things to do which proved harder than she’d like to admit. She could feel the numbness sneak up on her. She wanted to drown in it and never get up again. She wanted nothing and nothing at all, and most of all, she wanted the world to stop spinning so she could take a breath and gather her thoughts.

She was aimlessly wandering. Hannah hadn’t tried the usual things she did on days like these — going to the Room of Requirement and doing what was needed there, going to the kitchens and baking, painting, tending to her plants. She couldn’t set her mind to it. So she walked in stead, and hoped that along the way, she’d find something to ease her mind. She found the opposite. Eyes fell on Michael and his fist against the wall and she halted, for a moment, before rushing over.

They weren’t close, but Hannah embraced him. She felt her heart break all over again. “Oh, Michael,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry. We — maybe you could punch a bit in the Room of Requirement? There’s punching bags there. Would that help? We could — we could charm his –” she nodded at Snape’s office. “– face on it.”

Michael stiffened under her touch, an instinctual reaction, but sighed into her after a beat. He willed himself not to cry, despite the threat of tears that burned in his eyes. If anyone were to be understanding, he supposed it was Hannah, but vulnerability had never been Michael’s strong suit, and he couldn’t bring himself to let go, even if he desperately wanted to. He let a few beats pass between them before stepping away. 

“Thanks – thank you.” Despite himself, he wiped at his eyes. They came away dry, and he offered Hannah a weak smile. They weren’t friends, not really, but they were something close to it, and that was enough. With a deep breath, Michael nodded and appraised his knuckles, already red and aching from contact with the wall. “Breaking some shit sounds really good right now, actually.” He glanced back up at her. “If you’re not too busy.”

After coming back from the holidays, Fay had returned to the castle with enough supplies to fuck with Snape and the Carrows for the next several months and she was absolutely thrilled by it. The firecrackers at the bottom of her school bag were burning a hole, figuratively speaking, and it only seemed right that she take the evening to go use them. She didn’t know if Snape was going to be in his office, but a quick pass by to make sure was all she needed. 

As her attention was eagerly on the plan at hand, Fay didn’t notice Michael until she was right upon him. The sight of the guy immediately brought a spark of anger out of her and her hands curled to fists as she walked forward. It was clear that he didn’t notice her either, not until he turned, his fist coming out of the painting. “Oh, Corner, please. In what world would I not tell the Headmaster about this?” she asked, a gleeful look rising in her face. Having anything she could use against Michael made it a great day in her book.

Michael faced Fay with a blank expression. His knuckled ached from where they hit the stone wall behind the canvas, but he paid it little mind. He had neither the time nor the energy to tolerate whatever shite Fay was trying to start. He wouldn’t engage, not this time. Shaking out his hand, Michael gave her a once over, willing himself to keep his expression something between neutral and bored. 

“I don’t know, maybe one where you had a shred of common human decency.” He shot her a look. Not now, Fay. For the love of god, any time but now. He knew, though, she’d ignore it if she noticed at all. Michael swallowed back the anger that burned in his throat – it wasn’t directed at Fay but Merlin he needed an outlet somehow. 

Mandy hadn’t heard the news straight from the source (as if she would have been caught listening to that knock off bougie radio broadcast), but she had long trained herself to keep an open ear on these affairs - to catch the tail end of gossip, get a trusted source to confide in her, or happen to be in the room when it was being broadcast. It was only right. Only for her friends. And apparently, even those who weren’t friends. Or who weren’t anymore.

Watching Michael…what was the correct word for it? Breakdown? Throw a paddy? Act within the appropriate means and boundaries? Whatever it was, Mandy was tempted to hurry away. Her place wasn’t at his side, hadn’t been for a few years now. He had made that bed. She would lie back and think of England - and come to stand it in time. Their cold war, if you could call it that, wouldn’t be ended by her thank you very much.

But, a truce? A truce…a truce she could reconcile with. Perhaps.

Shooing away curious passerby’s, Mandy lingered at Michael’s side, half tempted to pat him endearingly on the back, half knowing the awkwardness would be too much for them to bear. “We’ll blame one of Hagrid’s creatures.” Eyes dropping to the canvas, she tutted. “God, that material is cheap.”  It didn’t matter, but it suspended the silence for a little while longer. “I heard what happened.” A beat. “I’m sorry it happened.” Awkward phrasing, perhaps, but Mandy would never be caught saying I’m sorry, or accepting some sort of wrong blame.

As long as the paperwork holds up, I am sure your parents will find the Ministry to be more merciful than the tabloids let on. Michael still had Snape’s last words on repeat when he turned to face Mandy, and if he had any sting of tears in his eyes they quickly evaporated. He’d cried more than once at Mandy’s side, but they were young, their friendship unbroken, and he’d be orphaned before it happened again. 

We’ll blame one of Hagrid’s creatures. Merlin, fuck, he still recognised the tone of her voice; the same she used in third year when he’d chipped half a toe off Rowena’s statue in the common room, and again in fourth when he busted his wrist in quidditch try-outs. Michael knew this was the worst part – seeing her around the castle, hearing her voice, knowing she knew everything about him and wishing he could take it all back. Knowing he can’t. He pulled his gaze from hers before she finished speaking. All his rage had fizzled out, replaced with grief and fear.

“Yeah, everyone fucking heard what happened,” he muttered, mostly to himself. Michael’s eyes swivelled up to meet Mandy’s. He didn’t say it, he couldn’t – wouldn’t – say it, but he hoped she understood the silent thanks. For her kindness, relatively speaking, for keeping his secret. He reached forward to lift up a fragmented piece of the canvas. “It was ugly anyway. Now it’s modern art.”

     “of course,”  seamus replied, almost immediately.  he wasn’t proud of it, but he was fairly certain he would’ve said anything to get michael to come home with him.  he knew it was selfish, as much as he wanted to say it was for michael’s benefit, that it was just as much for his own.  he wanted to quell that ugly part of him, but …  the opportunity presented itself.  he really did think about warning his parents.  but they didn’t know about him yet.  could he bypass that and go straight to the us of it all?  not to mention just the idea of sending a letter in the first place.  he couldn’t shake the idea that the carrows would be able to find him — and michael, too — and seamus wouldn’t permit that.  he’d rather surprise his mum and explain everything in the safety of his own home.  surely michael would forgive him for that?

     “i promise i will.  just — later, okay?”  don’t make promises you don’t intend on keeping.  “i can do it later.”  he leaned forward slightly, just enough for a peck on michael’s lips.  he brought up their hands, still intertwined, and kissed michael’s hand.  one for each knuckle, then square on the back.  seamus tried to ignore the thought that they might not be able to do this as freely back home.  he shoved it down.  he would cross that bridge when he came to it.  it would all work out.  he would be home, where they were safe.  everything would make sense again.  it had to, right?  “yeah?  ask away.”  he couldn’t help the way his eyebrows furrowed, curious as to what michael had to say.  maybe he just wanted to sleep in his own dorm tonight.  as much as seamus didn’t like ravenclaw tower, for michael he would.

michael moved into the kiss, but he was too late. seamus had already ducked down, pressed his lips to michael’s hands, and any semblance of thought unravelled. michael’s mouth opened and closed as seamus’ moved against his skin, but no sound came out. his heart was a hummingbird, beating so fast against his chest it might jump through, or give out altogether. for a passing second michael could even be considered light-headed, and he had no draught to blame it on. 

he swallowed, hard. it was always the soft touches that got him, short circuited his brain and left his hands shaking. could seamus feel it? he must have. still, michael couldn’t bring himself to move. he wanted more, seamus’ mouth cutting lines of fire and electricity to his wrists, up his arms, down his chest. he needed more, but by the time michael could string two thoughts together seamus had already pulled away.

“i –” with one touch, all his practiced eloquence had evaporated. he swallowed, tried again, but it came out no better. despite being the only two in the room, michael’s voice was barely above a whisper. “what are we, seamus? what – what is this?” he recaptured seamus’ hands, begging him not to see reluctance, or merlin forbid regret, in the question. he pressed his lips to seamus’ palm and kept his gaze steady.

he notices quickly that michael is crying, and his own chest lurches at the sight. he doesn’t know what happens during these dreams, but if this is the reaction to it - he doesn’t think he wants to know. instinctively, he knows he should be doing something - but one thing terry has never been good at is reading emotions and reacting accordingly. and seeing how michael’s already apologizing, the last thing terry wants is to make him feel even worse by bringing more attention to it. “it’s okay, i got you,” he muttered, one of his hands moving to cover michael’s own that’s tangled in his shirt. “i got you. you’re okay” 

it sounds idiotic as it leaves his mouth, because nothing about this scene is okay. nothing is fine with the fact that terry has become too familiar with michael’s scream. exhaling slowly, terry slides down to sit on the floor beside the bed, making sure that he kept his hands on michael in some form - if only to just to keep him anchored back to where they are right now. it’s small gesture, but if it can keep michael tethered to the here and now versus where his thoughts try to drag him, then it’s something. 

he glances over at anthony’s bed, noticing that their friend is stirring, but doesn’t seem to be awake. probably for the best, he thinks, before turning back to michael. terry’s first thought is to ask if he’s okay, but he already knows the answer to that. “i’m - do you want to talk about it?” he eventually asks quietly, turning back to look at michael. “if you want to. if it’ll help.”

somewhere in michael it registers what he’s asking of terry; his hand curled in the fabric of terry’s shirt, clinging to him, begging him to stay without the words for it. he’s asking terry to understand too, something he couldn’t even possibly begin to imagine, and it’s that realisation alone that loosens michael’s grip, just a little. he wonders if terry even notices, and doubts it. he shifts onto his elbows as terry sinks down beside the bed and opens his mouth to say something, anything, but it’s a few beats more before michael’s able to form the right words.

“nah, mate.” you wouldn’t understand. i couldn’t burden you with that. it isn’t yours to bear. michael shakes his head, sniffs, wipes the last few tears away with his palm. sucks in a ragged breath. “don’t think anything’ll help it. tried pomfrey’s sleeping draughts and dreamless balms. i’m fucked up good.” in a sudden movement michael sits up, draws his knees and leans forward over them. his hand pulls away from terry’s.

“didn’t wake you though, did i?” as if on the same wavelength, michael’s eyes drift to anthony’s closed curtains.

Michael slammed the Headmaster’s door shut with far more force than necessary. His nerves were on fire, and he was sure if he stopped moving, even for a moment, he’d stop breathing entirely. Their conversation was brief, but Michael was already forgetting the details. A lot of no sir, no sir, no sir. Snape asking if he was lying – absolutely not, sir. And despite the fact Snape looked no less dour on the way out than he had going in, Michael felt little satisfaction. 

He should’ve gone with them, was his first thought. If they’d all left together before Christmas none of this would’ve happened. Michael knew, in his heart, it was never really an option, but it didn’t stop the guilt from soiling ever thought that popped into his mind. He didn’t even realise he’d put his hand through an empty painting, until he pulled out his closed fist. It was another beat before he registered the witness a few steps away.

“Let’s, uh, not tell our Headmaster about this, yeah? What d’you think?”