for amber, through the gift giving extravaganza 2018. enjoy! xx di

prompts used: dean x seamus, bill x fleur, celebration, "this is not what i had in mind.", fireplace, silver, voldemortwins!au, broken glass

edit: thank you to the amazing victoria (extramundane epeolatry) for the beta. love you!

a little shy and sad of eye

word count: 2650

Dean stared at his soot-streaked face in the cracked mirror. The water was overflowing from the sink and his nasty wound was throbbing with pain, but he didn't care.

They'd won. Voldemort had won.

The fact hadn't really sunk in, until now. The trauma of the war had still been rebounding in his mind and Dean had just shut down due to the fear. But now, listening to the constant hissing noise of the water flowing from the tap, the thoughts hit him like a bus.

Harry hadn't survived the last battle. One little mistake. Harry's wand was no match for the Elder Wand. He was dead, so suddenly, that nobody had moved an inch until Voldemort had let out a cold, high-pitched cackle.

A shudder had run through the crowd. Jumping into action, the older fighters had cast a temporary shield between the Death Eaters and themselves, enabling every one of them to scatter and run towards the Room of Requirement. Most had escaped, Apparating from the Hog's Head before the Death Eaters could know of their location, but some weren't so lucky. Dean grimaced, remembering the limp bodies of Lavender Brown and Ernie Macmillan as they fell to the ground, moments before they could Apparate from the Hog's Head.

That was a day ago. Now, Dean was camped out in Shell Cottage – one of the last havens left for the Order, trying to wash off the previous day's memory by scouring his face and hands roughly. Trying to forget.

It didn't work.

Dean heard the door opening behind him. The familiar trot of his best friend's footsteps echoed as he approached the sink and turned the tap off.

Dean could feel Seamus' glare as he snatched a towel from the shelf. He was annoyed with Dean – but at this point, he didn't give a damn.

"What?"

"What d'you think you're doing, mate?" Seamus asked, leaning against the tiled wall of the bathroom. Shell Cottage was pretty. The artist in him would've delighted in the beautiful, aesthetic scenes, but there wasn't any time for that now.

Not anymore.

"Trying to forget." Dean spat out. It was all too much – being on the run, Malfoy Manor, Hogwarts…

He couldn't take it any longer.

"You're not going to do yourself any good by forgetting, you know," Seamus said, quietly. "The war isn't over yet – perhaps it will never end. What's the point in forgetting the past, when it is as dark as your future?"

Dean stayed silent, as he slipped out of the little bathroom. He could feel Seamus' heavy gaze on his back as he walked away – but he didn't care. He was too tired.

He couldn't do this anymore.

He only let the tears fall under the safety of his covers – soundless, painful sobs that wracked his body and soul.

Dean isolated himself from everyone else after the first day at Shell Cottage. He could tell that Bill and Fleur were concerned, their faces etched with pity and sympathy every time they looked at him, but they were too busy with the other refugees to take much notice. Dean preferred it that way. It allowed him to think and dispel at least some of the darkness in his mind.

That particular night, though, sitting on the silky sand and the gentle waves, he felt a deep ache steal into his heart. It made him restless and wistful.

It made him lonely.

Suddenly, he was transported back to a comfortable sofa by a warm fireplace, sitting next to a grinning boy, a sketchpad having a ridiculous sketch of Professor Flitwick in hand. Seamus Finnigan had been the only person who was allowed to peruse Dean's sketchpad. But this particular caricature had been so funny and accurate that he'd shared it with the other boys – to Neville's nervous titters, Harry's quiet chuckles and Ron's exaggerated guffaws.

He missed those days. Back when everything had been simple and full of contentment. Back when he felt like he actually belonged.

"Galleon for your thoughts." Seamus' familiar voice interrupted Dean's reverie. Glancing back, Dean saw his best friend kneeling next to him on the sand, his blue eyes almost silver in the darkness. He looked uncertain – as if he wasn't quite sure about how Dean would receive him.

When Seamus saw the small smile on his face, he sat down next to him. Much too close, Dean thought, feeling the warmth fill his cheeks.

"My thoughts aren't worth that much, you know," said Dean, smiling faintly. The ripples of water reflecting the moonlight made the vista before him beautiful. The little specks of shining liquid reminded him of broken glass – like the broken glass of the bottles of wine he'd thrown against the wall, drunk and wallowing in the depths of despair that lonely night in the Cottage.

"Fleur is worried about you, y'know," Seamus said, handing a flask of Butterbeer to Dean. Dean was about to ask if Seamus had anything stronger, but he glared at him, telling Dean that it would be a bad idea to do so.

"Why?" Dean asked, nonchalantly, but of course, he knew why. He'd been a shell of his former self, drinking his life away, barely eating and snapping at everyone when they tried to approach him. He was protecting himself – like a little child from their imaginary monsters, only this time, the demons weren't imaginary.

"Why? Are you pulling my leg, Dean? You're barely seen by any of us, you live off Firewhiskey and you're going around looking like you're dead, for fuck's sake! Why shouldn't we be worried? Merlin, pull yourself together." Dean had never seen Seamus so angry. Sure, he'd always had little tiffs with him, but this was a whole new level of furious and Dean felt a pang of hurt in his chest, knowing that he was the reason for Seamus' temper.

Seamus left him, his feet creating a puff of golden dust in their wake. He'd left the Butterbeer behind, but Dean suddenly lost all his desire to swallow mouthfuls of the drink. Gripping one of the flasks, Dean turned his unseeing eyes to the starry skies, the tears warm on his cheeks and bitter in his mouth.

He returned to the Cottage only after all the stars had dimmed and all the darkness had been lit up by the orange rays of the rising sun.

Dean recovered slowly. The process began by him taking baby steps – appearing for dinner in the cramped kitchen, participating in the Order efforts, talking with Luna Lovegood about the horrible things they endured in Malfoy Manor… little things, but they were something.

And then he began to smile and laugh and live. Dean knew he was healed, almost, and that was enough for him.

A few days later, Dean found himself on the beach again, the sand on his legs and Seamus' rough kiss on his lips.

He didn't know how it began – they'd been talking about the war and how the Order was recruiting members yet again. Dean had wondered if he should volunteer, looking at Seamus for an answer. His eyes were shining a cerulean blue – with an emotion Dean couldn't place, and before he knew it, Dean was kissing him and it was wonderful.

They stayed in each other's embrace a little longer, revelling in the swirling emotions surrounding them. It seemed familiar, and yet so strange, that Dean was almost dizzy with delirium.

"This is not the answer I had in mind, Finnigan," Dean said, a little teasingly. A genuine, joyous smile made its way on to Seamus' face and Dean knew that if he did want to survive, it would be due to him, and nothing else.

"Feck it," Seamus groaned and pulled him into another kiss.

And for that moment, at least, everything was alright.

The war touched their little heaven soon enough, choking them with a vice-like grip and pushing them apart.

Fleur was in tears when Kingsley's letter arrived, bearing the news that Bill, Dean and Seamus, among other refugees, were going to leave Shell Cottage for separate Order safehouses – most of the Order was hiding, collecting information on Death Eaters and waiting for the right moment to strike.

The risks were high and the chances of winning were low, but they had to try.

The night before they had to leave, Dean felt Seamus' arms around him, his warmth radiating through Dean's thin shirt and his tears soaking the pillow cover. Dean shushed him, told him that it would be alright. They would survive.

Survive, yes. But will you live again? A nasty little voice questioned Dean.

He pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind. This was no time for despair. The stakes were high and death was almost a surety, but this was a time for encouraging words and kisses that spoke of a future with hope and brightness.

So, he held Seamus, his warmth radiating through Dean's thin shirt, listening to the crackling fireplace and Seamus' steady breathing.

"It isn't fair," Dean whispered, hoping that Seamus wouldn't here. "It isn't fair that I might lose you, just when I've found you."

Perhaps Seamus heard it, or maybe he didn't. Dean didn't know. He didn't care.

It would come tumbling down as soon as the sun rose, anyway.

Breakfast was an ordeal that Dean dreaded as soon as he took his place at the cramped table. Each of the refugees was subdued and restless – most of them had been summoned to various Order safehouses as reinforcements. No one ate much – even though Fleur's cooking was absolutely delicious, Dean's stomach churned at the thought of food.

But everything seemed to move too fast for his liking, and suddenly, Dean found himself on the soft sand outside the cottage, wind threading through his hair and making him shiver with cold and fear. He watched as Bill stroked Fleur's hair and Fleur sobbed into his chest – there was something achingly beautiful around them, the beauty of love contrasting against the grim reality of war. He turned away from them, to prevent himself from completely breaking down and giving up.

"Alright, mate?" Seamus' light voice was home, love and everything Dean had ever dreamed of. His eyes looked like the sea today – serene, calm and accepting of his fate.

Dean didn't answer him – he didn't want to sink into the sand and beg Seamus to stay with him there, by the soothing waves and the brilliant sun because Dean was afraid, and this time, he didn't find the courage to sink his fears.

Instead, he hugged Seamus, trying to convey all the things left unsaid between them. It was funny, really, because he was thinking of the past – of his cowardice and anger, and of the future – and of how dark and murky it seemed. He was not really present in that moment; he was dreaming, breathing, surviving on the forgotten bliss of times that had passed and the uncertain relief of the future yet to come.

When Hermione handed him the letter, the world started to spin.

"I'm sorry" was all she said before hurrying off to tend to one of her never-ending duties. Dean was confused, but when he saw the words Mr Seamus Finnigan inscribed in one of the lines, his hands started to shake.

He knew the symbol all too well – St Mungo's was one place that survived the Death Eaters' destruction. Moving headquarters to a tumbledown village, fifty miles from London, they still tended to the injured members of the Order – and more often than not, sent letters of condolences out to a victim's nearest family.

Dean dreaded the words present in the letter. At the back of his mind, he registered that Mrs Finnigan was probably dead or missing. Why else would the hospital send him the letter? But those thoughts were just whispers beneath the roaring in his ears.

He scanned the contents quickly – not quite comprehending the information the first time. On reading it carefully, Dean didn't know whether he had to laugh or cry.

Seamus was injured – badly, in a duel with a Death Eater. His condition was stable, but the chances of his survival were quite low.

Dean choked back a sob.

He wanted to storm out of the Order's safehouse, get to St Mungo's somehow – he didn't fucking care if he got arrested or killed or tortured, but he had to be there. Decision made, he stormed out of the room, his courage fuelling him in the face of darkness and danger.

He stopped as he spotted Hermione Granger by the only exit – a brightly painted door, which was a stark contrast to her black clothes. Granger had lost both of her best friends and most of the Weasleys in such a short time that Dean didn't know how she was coping with everything. She looked determined, her chin set stubbornly and her lips drawn into a thin line, reminiscent of Professor McGonagall. Dean didn't like it.

"You're not barging out to see him, Thomas: it's downright moronic and bloody dangerous so you're going to stay put, right here." Once, Dean had commented that Hermione was as stubborn as they came (and he'd earned a hex from Ron for that) but he certainly didn't want that particular trait trained on him.

"Really? If it had been Potter or Weasley, wouldn't you have done the same? Let me go, Hermione. He – he, I need to see him."

Hermione's eyes soften at his words. "I do understand how it feels, Dean. Merlin, it's so horrible, I do know. But you must understand this – we're losing warriors left and right and you're one of the only skilled ones left. We cannot afford to let you travel two hundred miles to St Mungo's when we're under siege. The truth is hard, but… sometimes we can't do anything about it." Dean was still unconvinced so she pressed on, "Please, Dean. I swear, I'll get Madam Pomfrey to send updates through a Patronus every day, but you mustn't go there. Promise me."

And looking into Hermione's desperate brown eyes, Dean promised her that he wouldn't leave – because all of this mess was wrong and sorrowful and seeing Granger flailing about, hearing her sob painfully in the bathroom, every single night, he knew that he wouldn't have gone against her, anyway.

When the War was over – for good — there was a collective sigh of disbelief and shock. Voldemort was dead.

And this time, he wasn't coming back.

But Dean did not join the jubilant victors, no, he did not join the instantaneous celebrations, sparks of fireworks flying from wands, sobs of happiness surrounding him, the happy chaos was almost suffocating to him.

Because unlike everyone else, Dean hadn't won, not yet.

He'd stopped getting updates from the hospital on Seamus' condition a few weeks ago. Hermione had tried her level best to get more information, but she never received a reply. She'd given up, eventually, but today was different.

Kingsley had told him that a group of recovered members from St Mungo's had joined forces with McGonagall's cohort before the final battle. Perhaps your friend was with them?

Dean felt hope spring up in his chest. He might be here.

Even when he never saw Seamus fighting, he did not give up hope. He was here, he must be here.

And there he was, sitting on a patch of wilted grass, far away from the scenes of war and peace and everything in between.

Dean felt something like molten warmth fill his chest. Home. He was home.

And when Seamus' lips touched his in a kiss that spoke of relief and love, Dean didn't think of what the past had been, or of what the future held for them.

He just lived right there, in that moment, because that was where he was supposed to be.

ah, ∫ seem to be writing a lot of slash!fics lately but i absolutely love them. rather hesitant about how this turned out but amber provided some lovely prompts (thank you!), so… :)