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First Year
Dean didn’t know why his new friend Seamus was pulling him by the arm towards the high table, and the stern-seeming woman who’d directed the sorting -- Professor McGonnagall, their new head of house -- instead of where the pompous redhead prefect was directing the first year Gryffindors. On the other hand, he was too glad to have made a friend in this strange place -- a friend who understood wizarding culture, and was in his house, no less -- to question him. Seamus and Dean stopped when they reached the Deputy Headmistress, and stood in front of her, slightly out of breath. Dean stepped ever-so-slightly back, and wondered what would happen next.
“What’s Hogwarts’ official stance on partition, then?”
Whatever Dean had been expecting, it wasn’t that.
“Me mam wouldn’t tell me, see, but it’s not like it hurts to ask, does it? We’re nationalist stock, though of course the violent lot are almost as bad as the English, we’d never support the IRA, now, we’re not that sort--”
Dean elbowed his new friend, hard, worried Seamus would say something even more damning. Professor McGonagall looked down at them over her spectacles, and Dean felt a bubbling panic begin in his stomach. What had he gotten himself into by sitting next to this clear radical on the train? But then McGonagall's face seemed to soften slightly. She didn’t quite smile, but the thin line of her mouth was less pronounced, and a decided twinkle came into her eyes. “Well,” she said, slowly and carefully, “the official Hogwarts position echoes the official position of the Ministry of Magic, which is that Wizards don’t get involved in silly Muggle squabbles over things like borders, and Wizarding culture is more united in secrecy than we are divided by any political boundary.”
Seamus made a retching sound, and Dean wondered again at his bravery. Seamus began what was clearly working up to be a rant “That’s ridiculous! When wizards are just as--”
“Mr. Finnigan,” interrupted the professor in a sterner tone, and Dean wondered if they were in for a scolding, before she added, “are you an Irish speaker?”
Seamus nodded, slowly.
“I’m a little rusty,” McGonagall confessed, “being, of course, more comfortable with Highland Gaelic, myself, but --” and then she spoke in a musical language that sounded completely alien to Dean’s ears, though he thought he heard several sibilant s’s. Whatever she said, Seamus’s expressive face moved rapidly from shock to awe to an enormous, cheeky grin. “We gaelic-speaking peoples must stick together,” Professor McGonagall added in English, with the shadow of a wink. Seamus nodded firmly, and pulled Dean away with him. Soon, they were running to catch the tail end of the Gryffindor group, heading up a twisty stairwell.
“She’s well brilliant,” Seamus muttered to Dean under his breath. “I’m glad she’s our Head of House.” Dean nodded, and knew without a doubt that the next six years would be an adventure.
Second Year
Dean wasn’t really paying attention in Defense, except to note to himself that he was sure Harry was up to something. It was downright weird and unlike him to participate so heartily in one of Lockhart’s ridiculous play-acted scenes. But here Harry was, adjusting his performance patiently to scream more piercingly in his Bandon Banshee imitation, occasionally glancing to Ron or Hermione for support. As the class went on, Dean paid less and less attention, becoming engrossed in his banner designs for the upcoming Quidditch match, marring his few notes with drawings of lions and snitches. When he looked up, however, his best mate was raising his hand insistently at the desk in front of him. Dean knew this was going to be good.
“Excuse me, Professor Lockhart, sir,” began Seamus, determinedly interrupting Harry’s best attempt at a blood-curdling shriek. He continued, “why didn’t you use the traditional Irish method of Banshee containment, then?”
“What?” said Lockhart, looking so thoroughly confused that Dean let out a muffled snort.
“The Irish have been containing Banshees for centuries, and the method is much simpler than what you’re suggesting,” insisted Seamus, stubbornly.
“Than what I DID to save the village,” corrected Lockhart, and Dean could sense at least half of the class rolling their eyes. “Anyways,” continued the Professor, “I’m sure those savage, primitive methods are less effective than --”
“I’ve been scared of banshees all me life sir, I know damn well the best way to contain them,” Seamus said coldly. And Dean could see that the whole class believed him, and felt both a glimmer of pride at his best friend’s cleverness and despair for his recklessness in using swears in front of a professor.
“Five points from Gryffindor,” said Professor Lockhart haughtily, “for vulgarly questioning my methods.”
“But Professor --”
“Mr. Finnigan, be silent before I make it ten.”
Seamus lowered his hand sulkily, and Dean leaned forward to pat him consolingly on the back.
Third Year
Dean was surreptitiously tapping his doodle with his wand, determined to get the motion right. His little cartoon of Seamus was supposed to have a goblet blow up in his face, but so far it looked more like the chalice was being sick all over him. History of Magic was truly Dean’s least favorite class, now they had a competent Defense teacher -- at least Professor Trelawney was entertaining, even if Dean was almost as skeptical of her as Hermione. Dean finally vanished his drawing in disgust and glanced over to see what Seamus was up to, having felt him shift in the seat next to him. To Dean’s surprise, the Irish boy was determinedly raising his hand. Dean knew that obstinate look, and felt something in his chest warm with fondness for his brave, foolhardy best friend. As Dean forced himself to focus on what Professor Binns was saying, he soon discovered exactly what had brought that specific look to Seamus’s face.
“...To repeat myself, Latin and Greek are the basis for almost all spells in the British Isles created in the middle ages, and certainly the most effective ones, as the only languages of the learned in those days. Yes, Mr. Fitzpatrick?”
Dean could practically hear Seamus’s teeth grind as he said “Finnigan, sir,” then continued, “What about Ireland?”
“I know of no particular relevance of Ireland to this topic,” said the ghostly professor, repressively, “the spells we use today that have medieval roots almost almost all trace back to England,”
“And why is that, then?” said Seamus, not even bothering to raise his hand. The whole class was watching intently now, freed from the fog of boredom that typically descended on Professor Binns’ class by the conflict. “I’ll have ye know that in the middle ages Irish wizards and witches created loads of spells in High Irish, because our relationship with Muggles was always better than ye’s, and we wanted’em to know what we were saying, didn’t we? And those spells were lost, and whose fault was that?”
Professor Binns was, as ever, undaunted, “Mr. Flannery, this is not the time for such debates, as --”
“Not only that, but Irish Muggles’ correct belief that magic was real was used as evidence of their ‘backwardness’ by you lot, and a reason for us not to be able to govern ourselves! Imperialist pr--”
“Mr. O’Farrell, I have heard quite enough. Five points from Gryffindor.”
At that, Seamus sank back down into his chair, and Professor Binns droningly continued the lecture. The class quickly settled back into their normal History of Magic pursuit of not paying any attention. “Shay, it’s okay,” Dean whispered to his dejected friend. “You and I both know you’re right, and that’s what matters, isn’t it?”
Seamus’s smile was, as always, like sunbeams breaking through cloud cover. Something about it made Dean’s breath catch in his throat, but he decided not to examine that feeling any more closely for the moment.
“It is, sure” said Seamus softly.
Fourth Year
Seamus appeared to be one of the only boys not completely smitten with Fleur Delacour.
“Not my type,” he said, simply, when Dean asked him about it. “Besides, it feels a bit weird how everyone’s mooning over her when we’re supposed to be supporting Harry, doesn’t it?”
Dean conceded the point, but shook his head, marveling at his best friend’s cool response. Just then, as if summoned by skepticism of her charms, Fleur entered the great hall and beelined straight for the Gryffindor table. Dean felt his heart begin to beat faster, an automatic physiological response to her presence. It turned out she had merely come to chat with Harry, and Dean tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach that interaction produced. As Fleur turned to walk towards the Ravenclaw table and her breakfast, she snagged a plate of pastries from right in front of Seamus, obviously certain that no boy would think to object.
“Excuse me,” said Seamus, “Give us those back, please.” Fleur had looked shocked when Seamus first spoke up, but her eyes narrowed as he spoke.
“Oh, Irish,” she said dismissively, as if that explained everything. She then turned decisively back towards the Ravenclaw table.
“What the fuck does that mean, then?” said Seamus, dangerously, eyes glittering as he stood up slowly from his seat.
Dean groaned, and quickly slid under the table, out of harm’s -- and embarrassment’s -- way, cursing the fact that he would inevitably be the one to help Seamus regrow his eyebrows or come up with an alibi following the fight.
Fifth Year
Dean was doing what he normally did in potions these days -- silently contemplating how he could have managed to spend five years in the class without absorbing any information, and wondering whether there was any possible way he could pass his O.W.L. in the subject. What Dean was not doing was paying any attention to Snape’s lecture, knowing that if all else failed he could get a second-hand recounting of Hermione’s notes from Ron. This, as it turned out, was a tactical error, as he felt Seamus stiffen beside him at something the professor said, and had no idea how to diffuse the situation.
“Mate, whatever it is, it’s not worth it,” Dean muttered desperately, but Seamus was already raising his hand. Things weren’t at their best between the two boys anyways, not with Seamus’s recalcitrance to join the D.A., and Dean’s burning need to learn to defend himself as a possible muggleborn.
“Yes, Mr. Finnigan?” said Snape, in a tone of voice that would have made any normal person drop the question in a second. Dean knew that Seamus had never been normal, though.
“Sorry to interrupt, professor, sir, it’s just that something you said was incorrect,” Seamus began. Dean started to sweat with sympathetic nerves, resisting the urge to cover his face with his hands.
“Indeed,” said Snape, and Dean wondered how a person could look both disinterested and angry at the same time.
“Well, sir, you said that you didn’t think this potion had many practical uses, when just last month it was used to dissolve shrapnel embedded in muggles hurt in an IRA bombing,” said Seamus, and Dean could tell it was costing his best friend all of his self control not to use stronger language.
“Ah, I see, Mr. Finnigan, but I was discussing its potential use in wizarding conflicts that matter, rather than the unending tribal conflicts between Irish muggles.” Snape’s voice dripped with so much scorn that Dean couldn’t tell whether he thought “Irish” or “muggle” was the worst word. “Five points from Gryffindor for interrupting, don’t make me make it detention,” he added, silky smooth.
Dean gripped Seamus’s arm beneath their lab table, feeling the firm muscle clenched tight. He muttered into Seamus’s ear, “Don’t do it, mate, don’t say anything, but he’s a prick, he’s the worst person, he’s such a fucking bigot.” Dean could see that every Gryffindor in the room was ready for a fight, even Harry, despite his recent conflicts with Seamus, and felt a surge of pride in his house, though he was relieved to feel Seamus relax against him. “Seamus,” said Dean softly, “want to do something stupid and reckless and come to the D.A. meeting tonight?”
Seamus smiled, and Dean felt that despite Umbridge and exams and possible civil war, maybe everything would be alright.
Sixth Year
Dean grinned at Seamus as he came down from the boys’ dormitory in his dress robes. The other boy looked good in crisp dark red, which brought out the blue of his eyes, and Dean felt a twinge of regret for his own basic black. “Thanks again for coming with me to this, mate,” he said.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” said Seamus in a put on high voice, batting his (long, beautiful) eyelashes outrageously in a fairly decent Romilda Vane impression. Dean dutifully chuckled, but he felt real gratitude for his best mate. For some reason Slughorn had taken a shine to Dean during the few brief times he had escorted Ginny to “SlugClub” parties, and invited him to his last pre-exams “little get together.” Dean probably wouldn’t have gone, except it was the one place that Harry and Ginny were sure not to be. The newly minted lovebirds were pretty much inseparable these days, and they seemed to be everywhere Dean looked. Dean actually felt strangely at peace with the whole situation -- who could compete with the Chosen One, after all -- but that didn’t mean that he wanted to be reminded all the time.
Plus, Dean felt like he’d been neglecting his best friend most of the term, what with relationship drama and Quidditch subbing and mountains of homework. Seamus had really stepped up after the break up, listening to him rant and distracting him with gobstones games and drawing prompts. As they walked through the castle towards Slughorn’s office, it occurred to Dean that he’d had Seamus in his life for almost six years now, and that he’d never been this close to someone outside his family. Dean needed Seamus, but he wasn’t sure how to show him that. He supposed bringing him to this party was a good start.
“Mr. Thomas, I’m delighted you made it!” bellowed Slughorn, as the two boys ducked under the streamers at the entrance to the enlarged suite of rooms. “And who might this be?” the old man inquired thoughtfully, an odd twinkle in his eye.
“Oh, this is my best mate, Seamus Finnigan,” explained Dean, and he thought he caught a flinch on Seamus’s face, but it might have been a trick of the light.
“Pleased to meet you, sir,” said Seamus, offering his hand with a grin, “seeing as it’s the end of term and all.” Slughorn chuckled at that, and waved them further into the room. Seamus instantly made for the dessert table, while Dean stopped off to say hi to Parvati and Padma. On his way to join Seamus, he overheard something that made him stop in his tracks.
“And of course the best muggle king was Henry VIII, had two witch wives and put Ireland in its place to boot --”
Dean couldn’t really take such a wrongheaded statement, especially from Zacharias Smith, who already grated on his last nerve. He barged into the conversation, startling the fifth year Ravenclaw Smith had cornered. “What the actual fuck, Smith? ‘Put Ireland in its place’?? What kind of imperialist bullshit is that? Henry’s reign was the beginning of a terrible era of English authoritarian rule in Ireland, and even if you don’t care about Irish muggles, which your stated politics claim you do, Henry’s embrace of Protestantism brought down a wave of violence on witches and wizards, especially Irish witches and wizards, that was brutal enough that less than 200 years later it led to the Statute of Secrecy! Without Henry we would never have had Oliver fucking Cromwell, are you out of your mind?”
In the silence that followed Dean’s outrageous historical tirade, Dean heard a voice behind him say, “Holy fuck you’ve been listening.”
Dean turned away from Zacharias’s gaping expression and saw Seamus, a strange, intent look on the other boy’s face. Suddenly, Seamus nodded, as if making a decision, then grabbed Dean by the wrist and pulled. Before he could process what was happening, he was being compelled through the party towards the door, bemusedly staring down at the sandy curls on Seamus’s head, wondering if one or the other of them had gone mad. As they made their way out of the office, Seamus called to Slughorn “Thank you for the lovely party, Professor, I need Dean right now.”
Slughorn winked, and Dean could feel a hot blush creeping invisibly up his neck, but he couldn’t say why. He wanted to ask Seamus what was happening, but somehow he didn’t want to interrupt whatever was making his best friend move with such purpose. Dean realized they were hurrying towards the Room of Requirement. Seamus dropped Dean’s wrist to do the required paces for entrance, and Dean’s hand suddenly felt cold.
Then Seamus pulled Dean into the room, where for some reason there was a roaring fire and a single large armchair. Seamus looked at the chair and blushed, cheeks visibly rosy under his freckles. Dean was about to ask what this room was for when Seamus broke the silence they’d maintained for several minutes.
“Well,” he said, “I have a feeling in me, and I’m not sure what I can do about it, except be a good Gryffindor about it, so” and Seamus suddenly pushed Dean down by the shoulders into the armchair. “You’re too bloody tall, see,” said Seamus, in a shy voice Dean had never heard from his brash friend before. And Dean was beginning to see, and his heart was pounding in his ears. He thought about late nights and campouts and crying on Seamus’s chest and learning about Quidditch and trying to explain football and standing up for each other and huddling against the cold and holding hands under the table for comfort and muscles rippling under robes and whispering fears of Voldemort to each other in the dark and the other, unarticulated fears Seamus sometimes alluded to and Oh. Oh. Oh, this was really happening and it wasn’t one of his barely repressed dreams, it was real and it was here and his best friend was looking down at him with his heart in his face, brave and terrified. Dean smiled.
“Is this alright, then?” whispered Seamus, and Dean had a boy in his lap, one he would happily hold for the rest of his life. Dean’s hands found Seamus’s waist, and he nodded, too scared of breaking the moment to speak aloud. “Brilliant,” breathed Seamus, and the press of his lips against Dean’s felt like coming home.