32. Ridiculous

"I feel like an idiot," said Dean, swishing his dress robes around his knees. He hadn't wanted to offend Madam Malkin in the shop, but Christ. "This is really what people wear?" He wasn't sure what made this worse than his school robes—the cravat, maybe?—but he wasn't even too keen on those anymore now that the magic had worn off for his sisters enough to make fun.

Seamus gave him a shrug from behind him in the mirror. "I guess," he said, and grimaced. "Had some like this when I was seven or eight and Mam took me to the ballet."

"Brill," muttered Dean.

"Figure we'll find out when we get to school and see what everyone else's got," said Seamus. "Can't look worse than Neville will, with that gran of his doing the shopping."

Dean snickered. "Hope he doesn't show up with a whole bird on his head."

They stared at themselves in Seamus's bedroom mirror for another few seconds. "What d'you reckon, then?" asked Seamus eventually. "Ten sickles—Dumbledore and McGonagall are getting married and making us all go to the wedding." They turned to each other, attempts to stifle laughter at the thought of Professor McGonagall in a wedding dress rendered ineffective instantly at eye contact.

"That or one of 'em died," continued Dean, still chuckling. "And they're having us all at the funeral."

Seamus collapsed on the bed, and choked out, "'Bout time for Dumbledore, ain't it?"

Dean fell onto the pillows beside him, shaking with silent laughter.

...

"Oh, fuck me!"

Dean turned around, spotting Seamus twenty feet behind him in the crowd. He wound his way back. The Atrium at the Ministry of Magic was packed for the ceremony—recognition of the members of Dumbledore's Army and heroes of the Battle of Hogwarts. A number of the passersby were gawking at Seamus, as he frantically patted a smoking patch on the front of his new dress robes.

"Was tapping my wand a bit, in my pocket," he said when the fire was out, and Dean nodded. Seamus had a number of these fidgety nervous habits. "Great," he muttered as he gingerly inspected the singed hole in the fabric. "Now I've got to get up on stage looking like a first-year who's spilled potion on myself."

"Wait, mate." Dean pulled out his own wand and took the front of Seamus's robe in his other hand. "Confervo."

The burned strands of fabric lengthened and softened and wove themselves back together. "Where'd you learn that?" said Seamus, with a hint of distrust. Dean didn't think there were many spells he knew and Seamus didn't.

"Ted—that bloke Ted I told you about," he admitted. "He was handy."

Seamus's eyes flicked to the sky—or at least, the high domed roof of the Atrium. "Thanks, Ted."

Dean let go of Seamus's robes, but paused to wait for his friend to check his reflection in the glassy tile that lined the wall. Their eyes met in the image.

"We look like fools," said Seamus quietly. "Who on Earth'd give us medals?"

Dean smiled tightly, mirthlessly. "Nobody should."

"Think we could ditch?"

With a deep breath in, Dean reached over and gave Seamus's back an affectionate clap. Seamus looked away from the wall to meet his eyes in a sidelong glance.

"C'mon," said Dean. "Reckon a couple of hours won't kill us."