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Dean floated through the halls absentmindedly, searching for some way to pass the time. Nobody ever considered how dreadfully boring it was to be a ghost, but that had been his biggest take away. Sure he’d had fun at first, haunting people and the like, but eventually even that had grown dull. Across centuries, people always had the same reactions – they never changed.
Somewhere in the distance, he heard the sound of a girl crying, which was highly unusual. No one lived here anymore, so he had long ago stopped hearing the everyday sounds of human emotion. He could, however, recite by heart the tour of the estate. This unusual, and yet entirely ordinary, sound intrigued him, so Dean decided to go investigate. It took him a few minutes to locate the source of the sound, but when he did, he saw a girl who must have been all of sixteen. Or at least, that was his guess. It was so hard to tell these days with the modern fashions and the like.
“Excuse me, miss?” he said, projecting his voice. He’d long ago learned how to be heard and seen and how to pass undetected, but it was always somewhat up to the perceiver. There was simply nothing he could do to combat a closed mind.
To his delight, the girl turned and looked up at him, her eyes widening in surprise as she took in his translucent and somewhat fuzzy appearance.
“W-who are you?” she stammered, sniffling a little and wiping tears from her face.
“Mr Thomas,” he answered with a slight bow and a smile. “Or Dean, if you prefer. I know it is commonplace to use christian names nowadays.”
“Rose,” the girl replied, her expression clearly bewildered. “But… how… what…?”
“I’m a ghost, you see,” he said, the words coming out strangely nonchalant. But then again, he’d had hundreds of years to accept the truth. “May I ask what has you so upset? Perhaps I can be of assistance.”
“You can’t,” Rose sighed, slumping back against the window. “Unless you can make someone fall in love with me.”
“Ah, matters of the heart.” Dean gave her a soft, understanding smile. “I have some experience. Would you like to tell me about it?”
Rose shook her head, but the tears started to well up in her eyes again and Dean knew that if he was patient, she would speak. And sure enough, she did. “It’s just… I’m madly in love with this boy who only sees me as a friend and I can’t stand it!”
Dean hummed thoughtfully, trying to decide how best to answer her. Romance was always sensitive and deserved great care in its response. “It may seem difficult to believe, Miss Rose, but there are worse things than one’s affections not being returned. One can, after the heartbreak, move on and find someone more worthy. It’s far worse to be separated from someone who shares one’s affections by circumstance. I say this from some experience.”
Rose considered him carefully. “Do you mean because you’re dead?”
“No,” Dean said, suppressing a smile. “We were both very much alive.”
“Well then why didn’t you just marry her?” Rose asked with the confidence that only youth could provide.
"If only it were that easy,” he sighed, thinking that she had no idea how much he had wished to do exactly that. “Would you care to hear the story?”
She nodded, looking utterly captivated, and so Dean began to recount the story of his youth, his lover, and how he died.
At eight and twenty years of age, Mr Dean Thomas was somewhat on the older side for a bachelor, which some found unusual. It was even more odd considering that he had met the love of his life at the tender age of thirteen, not that anyone was aware of that fact. Dean was very careful to make sure that no one was aware that he was madly in love with his best friend.
Dean had been a scholarship student at Eton, admitted as part of a scheme to allow a select few worthy boys from the upper middle class to experience such an elite education. Seamus Finnigan did not come from money either, but his mother’s aunt had named him as her heir and decreed that, as such, he must receive an appropriate education. And so the two boys had met and formed a quick bond.
It was an all-boys school so naturally there had been a fair amount of tomfoolery as the boys had gotten older. Nearly all of the boys had their first kisses at school and for most it had been a somewhat technical affair. Not for Dean. When he had kissed Seamus it had felt like the whole world had suddenly burst into colour. Everything made sense.
It had taken him a while to accept the truth, of course, though in the end, it came easier for him than it had for Seamus. But good heavens, when that boy finally gave in to love, he did so with the entirety of his body and soul, and every piece of him was Dean’s.
Everything had changed when they had finished school, though. By then, it was expected that men had grown up and ceased with any foolhardy, childish experimentation. Dean and Seamus suddenly had to pretend that they were nothing more than mere friends anytime they were together. It wasn’t so difficult when they were out in society, where he would hardly be any more intimate with a woman than he was with a friend.
Still, on nights like tonight, Dean sometimes wished he could take Seamus’ hand and pull him out onto the dance floor for a lovely waltz. Instead, he was flitting from one inane conversation to another, bored with the ton’s mamas who only spoke to him to be polite. None of them wanted their daughters to marry a man who had neither title nor wealth, and Dean, unfortunately, had neither.
“Mr Thomas!” A woman in a burnished bronze dress greeted loudly as she sashayed toward him. “A pleasure to see you here.”
“And you, Mrs Weasley,” he said, inclining his head towards her. She was perhaps the only mama who seemed to have any genuine interest in encouraging some kind of connection between Dean and her daughter. It was a shame he had no interest in women, because Ginevra Weasley did seem to be a nice enough girl. “Miss Weasley, you look lovely.”
Dean did his best to pay attention as she spoke to him, but his eyes kept straying away, wandering around the ballroom. After several long minutes, he spied Seamus, his golden blond hair standing out among a sea of mostly brunet gentlemen.
“Excuse me,” Dean said, trying to slip away from this conversation as politely as possible. “I… There is something I must attend to.”
Miss Weasley gave him a small curtsy, and he had to suppress a laugh at the gesture, which must surely have been the product of nerves or anxiety on her part, since he was so very far from a rank which would necessitate such formality.
He strode across the floor, making eye contact with Seamus, which was the most signal he could give. But they were very practised at noticing each other now, so they knew how to do this. Dean emerged onto the terrace and quickly descended the steps to the garden. It was not suspicious for him to be out here alone – he merely appeared to be another gentleman looking to take some air and escape the pressures of an ambitious mama. No one could blame him for that. He leaned against the stone wall at the entrance to the garden, waiting and admiring the night sky. Once upon a time, Dean had loved painting, and he longed to capture a night like this on canvas, but alas those days were behind him now.
Some five minutes after Dean had made his way to the garden, Seamus arrived, greeting him with a warm and wide smile. Dean felt his heart lighten right away, immediately made more at ease by his presence. He glanced both ways to make sure they were alone before taking Seamus’ hand and tugging him behind a conveniently bushy hedge. Seamus’ free hand went immediately to Dean’s waist and he snuggled in close.
“God, these evenings are exhausting,” Dean sighed, brushing his lips across his lover’s temple.
“I always wish I’d stayed home instead,” Seamus agreed.
“But then –”
“Mr Thomas?” a decidedly feminine voice called out, and the two young men sprang apart like flames had burst into being between them.
Had the young woman seen them? What should he do? Thinking as quickly as he could, Dean straightened his jacket and tried to look as unsullied as possible.
“I’ll meet you at Neville’s party later, alright?” he whispered, pressing a delicate kiss to Seamus’ cheek and squeezing his hand before turning away.
Dean heard hammering on the front door, loud and urgent, but before he was even halfway out of his chair, he heard the door burst open and fast footsteps stomping in the foyer. A moment later, Seamus was standing in the doorway to his library, chest heaving. His freckled cheeks were bright pink, but Dean couldn’t quite tell whether it was emotion or exertion that coloured them. Either way, it was incredibly attractive, and Dean longed to see if the flush of colour extended across his chest.
“YOU’RE ENGAGED?” Seamus bellowed, his voice absurdly loud in the little library.
“Seamus, please,” Dean winced, standing to close the library door. “My mother and sisters are home.”
“Oh hang your mother,” Seamus swore, reaching up to run his fingers through sandy blond waves. “Dean, is it true that you’re engaged? Because I was just dining with Harry and he told me that you’ve asked for Miss Weasley’s hand…”
“Yes, I have,” he confirmed, nodding once.
“How could you?” Seamus asked, his voice weakened by incredulity. “And without telling me! Do I mean so little to you, Dean?”
“Seamus, you mean absolutely everything to me,” Dean said, imploring him to believe the words as he reached out and took both of his lover’s hands in his own. “You are the most precious thing in the world to me, you and our relationship. But you know very well that if we want to keep this love, we must hide it away to keep it safe. I am getting too old to be a bachelor, Seamus, people will begin to be suspicious soon and I cannot be associated with any scandal, not while my sisters still have to procure advantageous marriages. There is no inheritance for them, you know this. They must marry.”
Seamus frowned. “I still don’t see why you should have to marry.”
“Society does not look kindly on perpetual bachelors,” Dean answered. “If you ask the ton, a man is meant to have a wife. I don’t want either of us to die for this love, Seamus, and we will die if we are discovered.”
Seamus sighed and let Dean fold him up in a hug. “But we shall never be together again once you are wed.”
“My love, I swear to you that we will always be together,” Dean said, punctuating his promise with a kiss on the top of Seamus’ head.
Dean wondered if anyone noticed how strained his muscles were as he tried to refrain from looking behind him, where he knew Seamus was sitting, valiantly trying to hide a depressed expression. He wished his lover was standing opposite him now, making vows to love him eternally. He wished he could hold his hands in public the way he was now holding Ginevra’s. Dean wished he could love freely and openly, but it was impossible.
Somehow, it registered that the chapel was oddly silent. As reality sunk in, he noticed that Ginevra’s eyes were narrowed at him slightly, and that seemed odd. Suspicion was surely an unusual emotion to see on the face of one’s betrothed in the middle of one’s wedding, and yet if he had to put a name to what he saw in her eyes, that would be it.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered, looking up at the poor vicar.
“Dean Erasmus Thomas,” the vicar said, apparently for the second time, “wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony?”
As the vicar kept speaking, Dean felt like he was proclaiming a death sentence rather than a marriage vow. And when he heard the words “I will” declared in his own voice, he couldn’t help but think it sounded oddly like a death knell.
It had been ages since Dean had seen Seamus. First his honeymoon to the countryside had kept them apart, then Seamus’ visit to the continent, then schedules that didn’t seem to match up. They exchanged the odd letter during this time, but there was always something strange about them. Try as he might have to avoid the occurrence, something seemed to have shifted in their relationship, and not for the better. Their words seemed strained and Dean was oddly torn between wanting to see his lover and hoping he didn’t. But still his eyes searched for Seamus in every ballroom and gentlemen’s gathering and every social gathering that he attended with his new wife. But finally, after months, he saw a mop of sandy blond hair, neatly coiffed into a style he’d never seen on Seamus before.
It was like his heart stopped in that moment, the universe slowing to a crawl around him, and everything but the back of Seamus’ head blurred into insignificance. He watched as Seamus turned his head to the left to laugh at some joke told by his companion, and Dean felt a stupid surge of jealousy. It should be his jokes making Seamus laugh right now.
Ginevra coughed lightly at his side and Dean tried to shake off his distraction, returning his attention to his wife with a smile plastered on his face. “Would you care to dance, my dear?”
She nodded and he led her out to the dance floor, doing his best to lead her in a waltz. He found it very difficult to focus, however, and his eyes kept drifting over to where Seamus stood on the edge of the room. As soon as the dance was over, Dean excused himself, not entirely caring that he was being somewhat discourteous to his wife. He needed some space, some fresh air to clear his mind.
He was not expecting Seamus to follow him out onto the terrace. But once Seamus was standing in front of him, Dean felt like a man possessed, like a feral animal incapable of controlling itself.
“Follow me,” he hissed, turning on his heels and march ing down the stairs to the garden.
He was reckless, too desperate for a touch from his lover to think properly, and they were barely at the hedges when he finally allowed his hands to roam over Seamus’ body. He pushed him up against the surprisingly firm hedge as he pressed their lips together in a devouring kiss. Seamus responded eagerly, his hands tearing at clothing as their hips ground together, almost as though they were engaged in a sensual dance.
“YOU!”
The shriek ended their kiss, but Dean did not step away from Seamus as he turned to see his wife staring at him with rage.
“HOW DARE YOU!”
He didn’t answer, too tired of hiding his heart to come up with some kind of explanation that would save the situation. But his silence only seemed to enrage her further, and she stepped forward, shoving him in the chest with surprising strength. He staggered backward a step or two, his back coming into contact with Seamus’ chest.
“I know this must come as a shock, Ginevra,” Dean said, holding his hands up as he tried to rationalise with her, “but I lo–”
“DON’T YOU DARE!” she snapped, reaching for a hand rake that had been carelessly abandoned on the low garden wall.
She hit him with it several times – on the arms, the chest, even once upside the head – but whether she meant to turn it around then or whether it was merely an accident, he couldn’t say. Dean only knew that one minute he was being battered by a hand rake and then next, it had sunk deep into his chest, accompanied by a burst of pain.
Ginevra paused for a moment, and he almost thought she might panic, apologise and beg his forgiveness. In this fantasy, they could all pretend none of it had happened and go on exactly as they had been before. But in reality, Dean watched as something broke in Ginny’s eyes, and instead of apologising, she yanked the rake out, swung, and sunk it into his chest again. Again and again she struck, crimson blooms appearing on his shirt and her gown with each new wound.
He felt Seamus’ arms catch him, his lover cradling him on the ground. Ginevra finally seemed to have had her fill, tossing the rake aside in disgust as she turned away from them.
Yes, go, Dean thought to himself as he sagged into Seamus’ embrace. Let me die alone with the one person I love.
“So you see,” Dean said, with a sad sort of smile, “I would have been so much better off if he had not loved me in return.
Rose gaped at him for a moment, positively aghast at his story. But her shock seemed to have dried up all her tears, so Dean considered it – at least in some sense – a job well done. He stood up, turning to leave the girl to her thoughts once more and return to his own as well. It may have been centuries since the events unfolded, but on the rare occasions that Dean told his story, he still found it somewhat draining. All those emotions…
“Mr Thomas,” the girl said, just as he was about to cross the threshold to the hallway.
He turned around, waiting expectantly for her pity or some naïve comment about how her situation was worse, having completely missed the point as young people so often do.
“Do you ever regret loving him?” she asked at last.
Dean was astonished by her question, which was so far from what he expected. But, once he collected himself, he did not have to think for even a moment about his answer. Again, his lips twisted into a sad smile, one that contained an eternity of anguish.
“No, not for a second.”