"Seamus?"

Dean was sat on the window seat in the sixth year Gryffindor boys' dormitory, staring out impassively at the swirl of late November snowflakes obscuring any possible view. He had a new sketchbook resting on his knees and a mess of charcoal pencils beside him, but he seemed to be ignoring them, instead holding a thick, heavy mug in his ink-stained hands and contemplating the gale brewing outside. He supposed it would be bitterly frigid out there, but it always amazed him how warm the tower was on days such as these. He supposed, lazily, that magic was responsible for sealing the undoubtedly many cracks in the ancient castle's worn-down stone walls.

"Hmm?" His friend looked up from the Quidditch magazine he was reading from underneath the comfort of three thick blankets and a family quilt, wearing an old woollen sweater and two pairs of socks. Unlike Dean, Seamus shivered at the mere sight of snow, and never left his bed if he could help it on winter weekends, using Dean as a begrudging but not entirely unwilling way to procure food from the Great Hall. And charming as Seamus was, he'd somehow convinced the house elves in his second year to bring hot chocolate and tea to their room on stormy days, a tradition they honoured still. Warming charms assured that the drinks would never be cold for long, and Dean never valued Seamus' slyness more than when they awoke to mugs of steaming drinks, with always enough to share with their appreciative dorm-mates too.

Now it was almost dark, and he brought his mug to his lips now, swallowing the still perfectly warm liquid. He tasted cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg, ginger… It tasted like the season felt.

"What language do you think in?"

Seamus set down his magazine and readjusted his blankets so they covered a socked foot that had sneaked its way out into the open air.

"I don't know, I've never really thought about it before. Have you?" he lilted, and Dean furrowed his brows in response. Seamus could practically see the thoughts whirling through his mind like snowflakes.

"Well, no," he said slowly, "but now that you say it I'm very aware that I'm thinking in English. But I only know English, so I suppose that's natural."

"But you don't usually notice yourself thinking, don't you?" Seamus pointed at his head. "It just happens, yeah?"

Dean shrugged. "All the same, do you ever notice yourself thinking in Gaelic?"

Seamus rarely spoke it at Hogwarts, aside from when he was drunk, angry or exceedingly tired. He'd found that past a certain hour, his internal translation mechanism seriously faltered and he would revert back to his first language, often without noticing, much to Dean's immense amusement.

Once though, last fall at the very beginning of the school year, when a violent thunderstorm shook the castle's foundations as Dean and Seamus tried to do some work in the common room, a little girl, one of those young first-years who'd turned eleven not long enough before their first Hogwarts Express voyage, had come down the stairs crying and clutching to a ratty old blanket for dear life. The room had been mostly empty, save for a few older students studying in the back, and Seamus had jumped up to immediately console the young girl, obviously terrified and homesick. She had hiccoughed her name with difficulty, and immediately recognizing the familiar brogue, Seamus began speaking low, soothing Gaelic, soft words Dean had never heard. In fact, Dean had never seen Seamus like that before, so calm and comforting and soft, and it had amazed him as much as it made sense to him. The girl had been stunned at hearing her language, and had quickly dried her tears and trudged upstairs, but not before hugging Seamus fiercely. Seamus had seemed embarrassed at his behaviour and shrugged it off quickly with "I used to be scared of thunder too," and they'd never spoken of the incident again, but Dean often thought of it, and Seamus' language.

"I guess," Seamus began, and Dean momentarily forgot what he'd asked, as he'd been lost in the memory of that odd night, "it depends where I am or who I'm with or what I'm doing." He reached over to take a sip of his own mug – a creamy hot chocolate, by the looks of the brown smudge he quickly wiped away from the corner of his mouth.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, around here, around you, there's no reason for me to speak in Gaelic, so I guess I wouldn't really think it. But at home, with da especially, you know how he's like with Gaelic, I'd say I would. I mean, if I were to pay attention."

"Your father would kick you out if you ever spoke to him in English, I suspect," Dean said with a smile. John Finnigan, though bilingual and generally soft and quiet in a way that led others to wonder where the hell Seamus came from, was a stickler for language.

"Probably. There are other places too, I guess. The church at home, or my nana's, stuff like that. But it's not really a switch I can turn on and off, though. It's more like… Well, say I'm counting to myself—"

"Swearing to yourself, more likely," Dean added, winking ruefully.

"Excuse me, I resent the implication that I indulge in blasphemy," Seamus said, a hand to his heart, the very picture of innocence. "Goddamn!" he added for emphasis as Dean rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, yeah, you're an absolute angel."

"Now, as I was saying before you so rudely interrupted me, let's say I'm counting to myself for whatever reason. Say, Neville's dropped the porcupine quills in Potions and I need to count them again."

"Neville's not even in Potions anymore," Dean pointed out.

"Are you going to let me finish? You're the one who wants to know how my brain works! Not that I blame you, my mind is pretty spectacular…"

"That's one word for it. Sorry. Go on."

"Alright then, you, you great tall clumsy oaf, havedropped the porcupine quills and I need to count them again. I might start out with one, two, three, but then maybe the next word that comes to me is ceithre, then five, then sé,and so on. Whatever comes first, whatever's more comfortable. No one's listening but me, so it doesn't matter right?"

"Well, it matters that you talk to yourself," Dean said, feigning concerned seriousness, but Seamus waved his hand to silence him.

"I'm just saying, it's rare that I make the conscious decision to switch. It just sort of happens," he finished, echoing his words from earlier. "Why the sudden interest anyway?" He thrust his hands under his quilt, presumably to warm them up.

"Oh, I don't know. I was just thinking… hey, what's the word for snow?" he asked, looking out at the bleak white scene.

"Sneachta."

"And, uh, tea?"

"Just tae. You were just thinking, specifically, that you wanted to know the Irish Gaelic word for snow?"

Dean gingerly set down his sketchbook and nearly empty mug to get up and stretch before making his way to Seamus' bed. He did feel a bit chilly, and maybe Seamus wasn't so daft after all to be bundled up in his countless layers. He slipped under the covers, not gracefully enough for Seamus to hold back on a look of indignation as they shifted from the precise way he'd had them placed ("for optimal Seamus-to-Blanket ratio and maximum warmth efficiency," he'd explained once to a mocking Ron). The expression was soon replaced by one of humming contentment as Dean wrapped his arms around him, pulling him in closely. Seamus facilitated him happily as he nudged his way closer, turning his cheek out to receive a kiss.

"No," Dean mumbled into Seamus' sandy hair, "I just figure that I should learn a bit, you know?"

"Why?" Seamus pulled the blankets up to his chin again, yet the still barely covered the much taller Dean's shoulders. "You've known me for six years Dean, and now you feel like learning?"

"Well, how do you say 'Hello Mr. Finnigan, lovely to see you again, also I'm madly and hopelessly in love with your son' in Gaelic?"

"Blech." Seamus made a retching noise, prompting a chuckle out of Dean. "I would never let you say that anyway, it's awful. Bloody lovey-dovey artist-types."

"All the same –" Seamus interrupted Dean by twisting around quickly and giving him a firm kiss on the lips.

"Fine. I'll teach you some, but don't go getting all sentimental on me, Thomas."

Dean kissed him again, and began languidly tracing patterns on his warm hands.

"Cross my heart. Now, what was that word for snow again?"

The castle would be positively blanketed with the white stuff tomorrow, and Seamus shivered in unhappy anticipation for his morning Herbology class – the greenhouses were notoriously chilly, even with warming spells. Now though, he was delightfully warm, nuzzled in Dean's arms, feeling the slow rise and fall of their chests together.

"I'd prefer not to think about sneachta right now, if you don't mind. Let's start with the basics… Say you're counting porcupine quills…"