Author's Note: Warnings for slash of the Seamus/Dean variety. Fun stuff,
right? I don't own Harry Potter and company, as if you lot couldn't guess,
and I'm sick, so that's all the author's notes you get. Not that you all
want any more, right? *grins*
Waking Cold
It's too early to be awake. Really, the sun's not even completely up yet! But Harry, the Quidditch captain this year doesn't feel that way. He thinks mornings are made for Quidditch practice. You see, he hasn't heard of this little thing called sleep.
I'm not getting up and Harry can't make me. My pillows are too soft, sorry Harry.
In full Quidditch captain mode, Harry yanks the covers off me and I'm given a great opportunity to feel just how cold our dorm is on a cloudy winter morning. I hope Harry is embarrassed because I'm not wearing any pajamas. It would serve him right if he was embarrassed. I crack my eyes open to see if it's possible to get my blankets back. Got to assess the situation. Maybe I can steal my blankets back while he's staring, shocked and surprised and horny on seeing just how well hung I am. It's a no go. Harry doesn't look particularly impressed. "Get up or I'll drag you naked to the Quidditch pitch." he threatens. He'll do it, too. It's a lot colder outside than in the dorm, so I sit up and list off a few choice words that would probably make my mum slap me.
Harry pulls me up with both hands on my shoulder. He doesn't trust me not to fall back asleep when his back is turned, so he wants to make sure I get all the way out of bed. I know this routine. Since I'm sleepy, everything seems to be breezing by in a slow motion sort of way and I have the time to study Harry's hands. They're rather pretty, a nice smooth ivory color, small, effeminate, and perfectly precise. Ideal for either a Seeker or a lover. Huh. I wonder if that's why the Irish seeker, Aiden Lynche has such a great reputation for hand-jobs.
Dean's got the same kind of feminine hands. They're different from Harry's though, because they're dark and strong and always, always warm -- no exceptions. He can be stuck in a blizzard and his hands would still be nice and warm. Come to think of it, it's not just his hands. He's just got a really warm body. Really hot, too, but I'm not going to get into that right now.
The facts: Dean is warm. I am cold. Dean is in bed. I am tired.
It's perfect logic, so I bounce out of Harry's hold and leap into Dean's bed, snuggling under the covers next to my favorite best friend ever, surprising him with a giant good morning hug.
"Seamus?" Dean asks groggily.
"Hi Dean!" I chirp. "Good morning!"
"Seamus," he repeats, sounding thoroughly confused, "what are you doing in my bed?"
I give him my best heartbroken look. "You don't remember last night? Wasn't I good enough for you?"
Dean's eyes widen for a moment -- ha, he'll believe anything this early in the morning -- but then Harry growls "Finnigan, get your lazy self out of Dean's bed, get dressed, and get on the field now!"
I giggle and a slow smile spreads across Dean's face. "This isn't a very good place to hide from Harry." Dean tells me sternly, though I think it's mostly so that Harry won't lecture him about harboring naked runaway Keepers in his bed.
"It's warm, though," I argue, snuggling up close to him. Dean only gets warmer when he blushes.
"You'd better go. He'll kick you off the Quidditch team if you keep doing this." Dean's voice is scolding, kinda like my mom's.
"Let him."
Dean shoves me out of his bed. "No, I like watching you fly."
My faces flushes a bit red, but I don't mind because it makes my face feel warmer. I wonder if that compliment means that my plan to seduce Dean is working. That's why I joined the Quidditch team in the first place, you know. Not even Dean can resist a sexy Irish boy straddling a broomstick.
Harry throws my practice robes onto my head, snapping me out of my reverie. The practice robes used to be red, I think, but they're not anymore. They're kind of a faded pink-gray-green-brown with smudges of every other color in the spectrum. You'd think Quidditch robes would stay pretty clean because the games up in the air, but between blood, crash landing's grass and mud stains, spilt broom handle polish, and whatever else, there's barely a clean patch on them.
I throw my robes on and follow Harry as he walks out for breakfast. Before I'm out the doorway, I give Dean one last glance. I think he's asleep again, with his face buried in the fluffiest pillow and his leg trailing off the bed and the blankets wrapped all around him and his smooth skin looking gorgeous and his thick black hair in --
"You like him a lot, don't you?" Harry asks quietly, smiling as he leans one hand on my shoulder.
I shove him away playfully. "Maybe," I inform him with a grin, then I'm out of the dorms, racing down the stairs to the breakfast table. Harry's really not a bad sort, once he remembers that he's not only my captain but one of my friends, too. He follows me at a much more leisurely pace.
In the great hall, I bolt down a breakfast of toast and orange juice. Meals are a great time for thinking because everyone's got their mouth full and can't talk. Some people don't notice this because they go ahead and talk with their mouth full, for example, the Creevy brothers, both of them Chasers who are talking excitedly about today's Slytherin versus Gryffindor match. Ignoring them, I take a moment to ponder the state of my relationship with Dean. Yes, I just said the word ponder. Don't laugh.
Dean and I are best friends. Really, really close best friends. Close enough to write off kisses and hugs as a show of friendliness. But is it anything more? I wish I had someone to talk to. Any one of my roommates would be a great person to talk to I guess, but I just don't think they can relate to being in love with their best friend.
I backtrack on this thought and look around. Sitting directly across from Harry is Ron, Harry's personal cheering section. He attends every practice session and strategy lecture, paying rapt attention despite not having a position on the team and spends far too much time with Harry in private.
Maybe...
I look closely at Ron, munching his toast absently gazing into empty space... empty space that Harry's head seems to be occupying.
I switch my gaze to Harry who seems to be eating his sticky bun in an altogether focused, seductive motion.
Back to Ron, fidgeting slightly but looking incredibly nonchalant about it.
Back to Harry, mimicking Ron's motions.
I "accidentally" drop my fork (doesn't matter that I was eating toast, a totally forkless food) and sneak a peak under the table.
Do normal just-friends usually play footsie under the table? Maybe I should ask Dean about it later.
Breakfast ends and the talking gets louder as the team walks out onto the pitch. Practice is difficult because Harry gets really obsessive about playing whenever we go up against Slytherin. If it weren't for his closeness with Ron, I'd think Harry wanted to impress Slytherin Seeker Malfoy. Maybe Harry's caught in a soap opera angst scene and can't decide which pretty boy he really wants... Hm, well, as long as he stays away from my Dean.
"Finnigan, pay attention!" Harry snaps furiously. Oh. Oops. Dennis Creevy, the lithe Chaser moves to throw the Quaffle through the left goal post. Can't have that. I flip my broom towards him and speed closer...
Only to be smashed in the head by an extremely solid Quaffle.
Wow. That Creevy kid really has an arm on him.
Reeling, I barely manage to keep my grip on my broom. I steady myself. A two second assessment reveals that I'm perfectly alright aside from the swelling bruise on the side of my face. Harry swerves in front of me, trying to hide a grin. "I think that bruise is punishment enough; you aren't going to get a lecture from me about paying attention. I think you've learned your lesson."
He turns to the rest of the team. "Alright, let's land and rest up for a while before our game," he calls.
We land and I stumble off my broom. "Hey, um..." I turn to face the stammering voice and have to look down at Dennis who's looking shyer than I've ever seen him. "I'm sorry about that Quaffle."
"My fault," I tell him cheerfully. No fair, he apologized. Now it's too hard to be mad at him.
"I was wondering..." I raise a questioning eyebrow, inviting him to continue. "Next weekend's a Hogsmeade weekend and if you wanted we could go to the Three Broomsticks for a butterbeer and, well, it wouldn't have to be if you didn't want, but maybe it could be a date?"
I try not to stare at him. Did Dennis Creevy, the tiny fifth year Chaser just ask me out on a date? What am I supposed to say? I mean, he's only fifteen, I don't want to scar him for life or anything, you know? "Dennis..." I say in my best patient big brother voice. He's got an older brother, surely he'll recognize that tone.
I'm about to explain that I don't really think of him like that when his lips suddenly appear on mine. I admit it, I don't exactly pull away when I discover that Dennis is actually a pretty good kisser -- correction: really good kisser. It's difficult to think under such conditions, but I'm able to conclude that maybe my patient big brother voice sounds a lot like my seductive-sexy voice. I should probably work on that.
I pull away, albeit reluctantly. It's difficult to break awesome kisses like that, even if you are head-over-heels for someone totally different. Dennis looks extremely embarrassed. "I'm sorry, I couldn't help it, even if you don't feel that way about me. I mean, it's okay that you don't and I accept that and I promise never to talk to you again!"
Great, so my patient big brother voice's dignity remains intact. I plaster one of my patented reassuring grins on my face and clap my hand on his shoulder. "No worries Dennis. I'm not complaining about the kiss you know. You are an extremely nice kisser, just not my type. What if I set you up with one of my friends instead?" Neville and Dennis will get on just great, won't they? Neville really needs a boyfriend and Dennis with his star- shattering kisses will be perfect!
"Alright," Dennis replies, looking taken aback. "So I can still talk to you?"
"Sure," I answer easily.
"You should probably get to Madame Pomfrey's before the match," Dennis reminds me.
"Right! I'll see you, then," I call back as I walk inside.
The hospital ward is mostly empty because no one wants to risk Madame Pomfrey demanding they stay there during the Quidditch match. The only people there are a couple of the younger kids with curse-induced injuries, probably from inter-house rivalry caused impromptu duels. Slytherin vs. Gryffindor matches always inspire House spirit.
It doesn't take long for Madame Pomfrey to erase the bruise from my face, but she instructs that I stay in bed for ten extra minutes until the tickling sensation from the spell dies away. Reluctantly I climb into one of the bleached white beds and devote myself to staring at the ceiling for ten minutes.
Someone sits on the edge of my bed. I look up to see Dean staring at me with an amused expression. "Let me guess: You want me to kiss it and make it better?" he asked.
"I was hoping that if I look pathetic enough you'd agree to do it," I admit.
Dean looks as if he's struggling to say something and I hold my breath because I can't help but hope...
"I've got a crush on someone," he blurts out.
"Someone?" I try to look curious, but inside I'm just screaming "It has to be me!"
"Someone... But I don't think I can tell you who because you'd hate me if you knew."
Everything falls into place and I understand perfectly. Subtle signs and tiny hints now appear as neon lighted posters. Last year, when Dean yelled in the middle of a Quidditch game for me to "stop flirting with the Slytherin seeker" and to just stay focused on the game. It must have been jealousy. Or that time in potions... And that time on the train... And in the corridors... And... Why didn't I see this before? So many things make sense now. How could I have ever doubted it?
Draco Malfoy.
It has to be Draco Malfoy.
I turn away from him, looking sullen. "I've figured it out," I inform him.
"You... What?" Dean looks shocked.
"I know how you feel about Malfoy!" I know I sound angry, and I know I shouldn't be. I should be trying to be supportive. Even if Dean likes Malfoy, I'm still Dean's best friend. I take a deep breath and force a smile. "Sorry, I'm supportive. See? This is me being supportive of..." I quit talking because Dean's laughing too hard to hear me anymore.
"You thought I liked Malfoy? Seamus, you idiot! I like you!" he's still laughing, still talking. "I thought this sort of thing only happened in romance novels... You know, the hero, that's me, practically confesses his love for the girl --" I let out a squawk of protest of being labeled as the girl "-- and the girl gets it mixed up and thinks he's in love with someone else... Seamus, I never knew that sort of thing happened in real life too!"
I'm not sure, but I think he's hysterical. Love confessions do that to people, I've heard. I don't want to slap him, so I do the next best thing and kiss him.
...Wow.
Did I really think Dennis was a nicer kisser? I'm sorry, but I was wrong.
Dean's kiss holds chocolate and fireworks and spice and best of all, all the warmth that I've missed in the mornings. We pull away for air, and Dean looks stunned but not hysterical and so cute that I have to kiss him again.
"Dean... I've got a question about what you said earlier; it's been bothering me," I tell him while we catch our breath after the fourth... fifth... sixth kiss... alright, so I lost track of what number we were on, but I'd like you try to count kisses when it's Dean Thomas you're kissing!
"Ask away," he replies absently.
"Do you really read romance novels?"
Waking Cold
It's too early to be awake. Really, the sun's not even completely up yet! But Harry, the Quidditch captain this year doesn't feel that way. He thinks mornings are made for Quidditch practice. You see, he hasn't heard of this little thing called sleep.
I'm not getting up and Harry can't make me. My pillows are too soft, sorry Harry.
In full Quidditch captain mode, Harry yanks the covers off me and I'm given a great opportunity to feel just how cold our dorm is on a cloudy winter morning. I hope Harry is embarrassed because I'm not wearing any pajamas. It would serve him right if he was embarrassed. I crack my eyes open to see if it's possible to get my blankets back. Got to assess the situation. Maybe I can steal my blankets back while he's staring, shocked and surprised and horny on seeing just how well hung I am. It's a no go. Harry doesn't look particularly impressed. "Get up or I'll drag you naked to the Quidditch pitch." he threatens. He'll do it, too. It's a lot colder outside than in the dorm, so I sit up and list off a few choice words that would probably make my mum slap me.
Harry pulls me up with both hands on my shoulder. He doesn't trust me not to fall back asleep when his back is turned, so he wants to make sure I get all the way out of bed. I know this routine. Since I'm sleepy, everything seems to be breezing by in a slow motion sort of way and I have the time to study Harry's hands. They're rather pretty, a nice smooth ivory color, small, effeminate, and perfectly precise. Ideal for either a Seeker or a lover. Huh. I wonder if that's why the Irish seeker, Aiden Lynche has such a great reputation for hand-jobs.
Dean's got the same kind of feminine hands. They're different from Harry's though, because they're dark and strong and always, always warm -- no exceptions. He can be stuck in a blizzard and his hands would still be nice and warm. Come to think of it, it's not just his hands. He's just got a really warm body. Really hot, too, but I'm not going to get into that right now.
The facts: Dean is warm. I am cold. Dean is in bed. I am tired.
It's perfect logic, so I bounce out of Harry's hold and leap into Dean's bed, snuggling under the covers next to my favorite best friend ever, surprising him with a giant good morning hug.
"Seamus?" Dean asks groggily.
"Hi Dean!" I chirp. "Good morning!"
"Seamus," he repeats, sounding thoroughly confused, "what are you doing in my bed?"
I give him my best heartbroken look. "You don't remember last night? Wasn't I good enough for you?"
Dean's eyes widen for a moment -- ha, he'll believe anything this early in the morning -- but then Harry growls "Finnigan, get your lazy self out of Dean's bed, get dressed, and get on the field now!"
I giggle and a slow smile spreads across Dean's face. "This isn't a very good place to hide from Harry." Dean tells me sternly, though I think it's mostly so that Harry won't lecture him about harboring naked runaway Keepers in his bed.
"It's warm, though," I argue, snuggling up close to him. Dean only gets warmer when he blushes.
"You'd better go. He'll kick you off the Quidditch team if you keep doing this." Dean's voice is scolding, kinda like my mom's.
"Let him."
Dean shoves me out of his bed. "No, I like watching you fly."
My faces flushes a bit red, but I don't mind because it makes my face feel warmer. I wonder if that compliment means that my plan to seduce Dean is working. That's why I joined the Quidditch team in the first place, you know. Not even Dean can resist a sexy Irish boy straddling a broomstick.
Harry throws my practice robes onto my head, snapping me out of my reverie. The practice robes used to be red, I think, but they're not anymore. They're kind of a faded pink-gray-green-brown with smudges of every other color in the spectrum. You'd think Quidditch robes would stay pretty clean because the games up in the air, but between blood, crash landing's grass and mud stains, spilt broom handle polish, and whatever else, there's barely a clean patch on them.
I throw my robes on and follow Harry as he walks out for breakfast. Before I'm out the doorway, I give Dean one last glance. I think he's asleep again, with his face buried in the fluffiest pillow and his leg trailing off the bed and the blankets wrapped all around him and his smooth skin looking gorgeous and his thick black hair in --
"You like him a lot, don't you?" Harry asks quietly, smiling as he leans one hand on my shoulder.
I shove him away playfully. "Maybe," I inform him with a grin, then I'm out of the dorms, racing down the stairs to the breakfast table. Harry's really not a bad sort, once he remembers that he's not only my captain but one of my friends, too. He follows me at a much more leisurely pace.
In the great hall, I bolt down a breakfast of toast and orange juice. Meals are a great time for thinking because everyone's got their mouth full and can't talk. Some people don't notice this because they go ahead and talk with their mouth full, for example, the Creevy brothers, both of them Chasers who are talking excitedly about today's Slytherin versus Gryffindor match. Ignoring them, I take a moment to ponder the state of my relationship with Dean. Yes, I just said the word ponder. Don't laugh.
Dean and I are best friends. Really, really close best friends. Close enough to write off kisses and hugs as a show of friendliness. But is it anything more? I wish I had someone to talk to. Any one of my roommates would be a great person to talk to I guess, but I just don't think they can relate to being in love with their best friend.
I backtrack on this thought and look around. Sitting directly across from Harry is Ron, Harry's personal cheering section. He attends every practice session and strategy lecture, paying rapt attention despite not having a position on the team and spends far too much time with Harry in private.
Maybe...
I look closely at Ron, munching his toast absently gazing into empty space... empty space that Harry's head seems to be occupying.
I switch my gaze to Harry who seems to be eating his sticky bun in an altogether focused, seductive motion.
Back to Ron, fidgeting slightly but looking incredibly nonchalant about it.
Back to Harry, mimicking Ron's motions.
I "accidentally" drop my fork (doesn't matter that I was eating toast, a totally forkless food) and sneak a peak under the table.
Do normal just-friends usually play footsie under the table? Maybe I should ask Dean about it later.
Breakfast ends and the talking gets louder as the team walks out onto the pitch. Practice is difficult because Harry gets really obsessive about playing whenever we go up against Slytherin. If it weren't for his closeness with Ron, I'd think Harry wanted to impress Slytherin Seeker Malfoy. Maybe Harry's caught in a soap opera angst scene and can't decide which pretty boy he really wants... Hm, well, as long as he stays away from my Dean.
"Finnigan, pay attention!" Harry snaps furiously. Oh. Oops. Dennis Creevy, the lithe Chaser moves to throw the Quaffle through the left goal post. Can't have that. I flip my broom towards him and speed closer...
Only to be smashed in the head by an extremely solid Quaffle.
Wow. That Creevy kid really has an arm on him.
Reeling, I barely manage to keep my grip on my broom. I steady myself. A two second assessment reveals that I'm perfectly alright aside from the swelling bruise on the side of my face. Harry swerves in front of me, trying to hide a grin. "I think that bruise is punishment enough; you aren't going to get a lecture from me about paying attention. I think you've learned your lesson."
He turns to the rest of the team. "Alright, let's land and rest up for a while before our game," he calls.
We land and I stumble off my broom. "Hey, um..." I turn to face the stammering voice and have to look down at Dennis who's looking shyer than I've ever seen him. "I'm sorry about that Quaffle."
"My fault," I tell him cheerfully. No fair, he apologized. Now it's too hard to be mad at him.
"I was wondering..." I raise a questioning eyebrow, inviting him to continue. "Next weekend's a Hogsmeade weekend and if you wanted we could go to the Three Broomsticks for a butterbeer and, well, it wouldn't have to be if you didn't want, but maybe it could be a date?"
I try not to stare at him. Did Dennis Creevy, the tiny fifth year Chaser just ask me out on a date? What am I supposed to say? I mean, he's only fifteen, I don't want to scar him for life or anything, you know? "Dennis..." I say in my best patient big brother voice. He's got an older brother, surely he'll recognize that tone.
I'm about to explain that I don't really think of him like that when his lips suddenly appear on mine. I admit it, I don't exactly pull away when I discover that Dennis is actually a pretty good kisser -- correction: really good kisser. It's difficult to think under such conditions, but I'm able to conclude that maybe my patient big brother voice sounds a lot like my seductive-sexy voice. I should probably work on that.
I pull away, albeit reluctantly. It's difficult to break awesome kisses like that, even if you are head-over-heels for someone totally different. Dennis looks extremely embarrassed. "I'm sorry, I couldn't help it, even if you don't feel that way about me. I mean, it's okay that you don't and I accept that and I promise never to talk to you again!"
Great, so my patient big brother voice's dignity remains intact. I plaster one of my patented reassuring grins on my face and clap my hand on his shoulder. "No worries Dennis. I'm not complaining about the kiss you know. You are an extremely nice kisser, just not my type. What if I set you up with one of my friends instead?" Neville and Dennis will get on just great, won't they? Neville really needs a boyfriend and Dennis with his star- shattering kisses will be perfect!
"Alright," Dennis replies, looking taken aback. "So I can still talk to you?"
"Sure," I answer easily.
"You should probably get to Madame Pomfrey's before the match," Dennis reminds me.
"Right! I'll see you, then," I call back as I walk inside.
The hospital ward is mostly empty because no one wants to risk Madame Pomfrey demanding they stay there during the Quidditch match. The only people there are a couple of the younger kids with curse-induced injuries, probably from inter-house rivalry caused impromptu duels. Slytherin vs. Gryffindor matches always inspire House spirit.
It doesn't take long for Madame Pomfrey to erase the bruise from my face, but she instructs that I stay in bed for ten extra minutes until the tickling sensation from the spell dies away. Reluctantly I climb into one of the bleached white beds and devote myself to staring at the ceiling for ten minutes.
Someone sits on the edge of my bed. I look up to see Dean staring at me with an amused expression. "Let me guess: You want me to kiss it and make it better?" he asked.
"I was hoping that if I look pathetic enough you'd agree to do it," I admit.
Dean looks as if he's struggling to say something and I hold my breath because I can't help but hope...
"I've got a crush on someone," he blurts out.
"Someone?" I try to look curious, but inside I'm just screaming "It has to be me!"
"Someone... But I don't think I can tell you who because you'd hate me if you knew."
Everything falls into place and I understand perfectly. Subtle signs and tiny hints now appear as neon lighted posters. Last year, when Dean yelled in the middle of a Quidditch game for me to "stop flirting with the Slytherin seeker" and to just stay focused on the game. It must have been jealousy. Or that time in potions... And that time on the train... And in the corridors... And... Why didn't I see this before? So many things make sense now. How could I have ever doubted it?
Draco Malfoy.
It has to be Draco Malfoy.
I turn away from him, looking sullen. "I've figured it out," I inform him.
"You... What?" Dean looks shocked.
"I know how you feel about Malfoy!" I know I sound angry, and I know I shouldn't be. I should be trying to be supportive. Even if Dean likes Malfoy, I'm still Dean's best friend. I take a deep breath and force a smile. "Sorry, I'm supportive. See? This is me being supportive of..." I quit talking because Dean's laughing too hard to hear me anymore.
"You thought I liked Malfoy? Seamus, you idiot! I like you!" he's still laughing, still talking. "I thought this sort of thing only happened in romance novels... You know, the hero, that's me, practically confesses his love for the girl --" I let out a squawk of protest of being labeled as the girl "-- and the girl gets it mixed up and thinks he's in love with someone else... Seamus, I never knew that sort of thing happened in real life too!"
I'm not sure, but I think he's hysterical. Love confessions do that to people, I've heard. I don't want to slap him, so I do the next best thing and kiss him.
...Wow.
Did I really think Dennis was a nicer kisser? I'm sorry, but I was wrong.
Dean's kiss holds chocolate and fireworks and spice and best of all, all the warmth that I've missed in the mornings. We pull away for air, and Dean looks stunned but not hysterical and so cute that I have to kiss him again.
"Dean... I've got a question about what you said earlier; it's been bothering me," I tell him while we catch our breath after the fourth... fifth... sixth kiss... alright, so I lost track of what number we were on, but I'd like you try to count kisses when it's Dean Thomas you're kissing!
"Ask away," he replies absently.
"Do you really read romance novels?"