Seamus has an Order of Merlin, second class, because he'd been tortured badly for helping Neville escape the Carrows. Dean by now has heard a dozen stories about the DA and thinks they all deserve the medals, but that's neither here nor there. The Ministry honours whoever it chooses.

The Orders of Merlin had been given out at the first Ministry Gala, which was also the Ministry Gala that had the best record of DA attendance. Even Dennis Creevey had gone. It's a shiny silver medal, encased in a frame and with a certificate of recognition. It just begs to be on a wall, in the place of honour or whatever.

Instead, it's in Seamus's sock drawer, where Dean finds it buried behind some socks of dubious cleanliness in the back.

"It's not like I don't respect the Ministry," he says,when Dean is brave enough to bring it up. "I mean, I don't respect them. But that's not the problem with it."

"Then what is?" Dean asks.

He knows Seamus is only this talkative because they're half asleep and a little stoned, and he knows Seamus is like to clam up if the conversation gets too touchy. It's near impossible to tell what's too touchy, lately.

"It's for being a war hero," says Seamus. He makes a sour face. "Whatever I am, I'm not a fuckin' hero."

Lately, Seamus swears without any vehemence. It's a sort of contrast from when he'd been fifteen and saying "fuck" because he meant it. He says it now like a fuckin' hero is the only kind of hero there is.

Seamus may not be a fucking hero, no last stands or glorious rescues or dramatics. Dean just wishes he could see the heroics in the little things. Seamus is a person of little things and little deeds, however much he tries not to be.

Dean has taken too long to reply, and Seamus must feel uncomfortable with the silence. "I wasn't a fucking hero," he repeats. "You have to be noble and shit."

"You weren't noble?" says Dean.

"No, course not," says Seamus. "I was telling the Carrows their mam must have been ugly."

Dean wants to laugh. "No wonder you looked so awful," he says.

"Neville was noble," says Seamus. "I was just a moron."

Dean wants to reassure him that he wasn't, but it would fall flat. Seamus has always been determined to belittle himself and it's no different now. "You want another cup of tea?" he asks instead. A truce, maybe. An agreement, that they can just leave the conversation there.

"Yeah," says Seamus. "Sure."