When Love Comes To Town

4. Desire. (Feb 4-23.)

Honesty was the best policy, but it took a lot of guts. And right now, if one was being specific and technical, Seamus was somewhat lacking in ballsy courage and jaunty derring-do. So for a while, he spent time being honest to himself, and desperately pretending the rest of the world didn't exist.

Lovely plan. Wonderful in theory. Shame about the practice. For one thing, Seamus was currently back to associating with Hufflepuffs, because they weren't as freaky as the Slytherins, as anal as the Ravenclaws, or well, as anti-him as the Gryffindors. This meant adjusting to certain things; for example, the realisation that Hufflepuffs were incredibly loyal, they just weren't incredibly loyal to the same thing, or even each other. Which meant that internal Hufflepuff politics were probably more fraught with danger than anything Sinn Fein could have come up with. So Seamus generally kept his head down, his tone even, and his opinions strictly to himself.

Besides, it took his mind of his own problems, watching the small disparate group of Hufflepuff sixth years tear chunks out of each other twice a day (and three times on Sundays) and then reconcile after dinner, through elaborate tea making, gift giving and hand holding ceremonies. Potentially the worst thing he had to deal with was Ernie, or rather Ernie who had stayed over at Justin's during the holidays, and been introduced to B-grade spy films. He'd suggested twice now that Seamus was actually Blaise Zabini in disguise, and ever gone so far as to grab Seamus' ear, and tug, claiming that in fact, Seamus' face was a mask. What Ernie had gotten for his trouble was a rather pissy Gryffindor clutching at said ear and dedicated to slapping him round the head for the next half hour or so. Fortunately Ernie did, eventually, get it.

Justin however, did not. Justin had a tendency to pick fights. He would pout, and rant, and declaim loudly about his honour and the history of the Finch-Fletchleys. He'd curl his hands into fists, and ponce about as if he was in a very camp boxing tournament, and then he'd dive, grabbing whoever around the waist and hurling them to the ground. He only called other male students out to fight, claiming that women were far too tender and retiring. When Millicent Bullstrode attempted to call him on that, Justin screamed like a girly-boy and ran.

Seamus wouldn't have minded the fights so much if they didn't involve the tackling. Because after the tackling, the fighting turned into a rather messy struggle, and then it turned into something else entirely - last time Seamus checked, the definition of fighting did not require one's opponent to have his hand on one's arse. Most disturbing was the time in which they were mucking about inside the Hufflepuff common room, and Justin had him pinned to the floor and seemed to be dry humping his leg. Canine activities nonwithstanding, this clearly wasn't good enough, as he called Ernie over to "help restrain the nefarious miscreant." Seamus saw the gleam in Ernie's eye and had a fairly good idea of the kind of extra study they might have been doing together. And for all that as a good, honest, well brought up Catholic boy, the idea of a threesome was like manna from heaven, Ernest Macmillan and Justin Finch-Fletchley were not, and would never be, his choice of partners.

As for who would be, well, the school was a veritable smorgasbord of potential gay love. Not in the explicit sense - it wasn't that people were jumping each other in the halls (well, besides Justin) - but once he'd come out to himself, and really let his hormones out of check, Seamus found himself looking at almost every male student Hogwarts had of a certain age. Even the ugly ones. Of course, that would induce shuddering and the devout resolve never to look at them again, but he couldn't help it. The moment Seamus clapped eyes on a bloke, he considered the three hundred and twenty seven different sexual positions that he and that particular male could get up to at various times and places. It seemed to be some sort of primal urge that overcompensated for his previous bout of self-denial, back when he thought that yes, picturing Hermione in a nightie will make me straight and aroused like a normal manly-man.

He'd never noticed his fellow students before, not nearly in such...imaginative detail. And he didn't seem to be able to stop noticing. Days went by when he couldn't concentrate on his work at all because he thought about the way Draco smirked or the curve of Harry's arse or the colour of Ron's hair (ugh, Ron, ugh, why couldn't he have taste?) Most worryingly, was the fact he'd caught himself staring at Dean every now and again. Because really, even though Seamus had little or no contact with Muggle culture, gay culture or the relationship between, he did understand that even for wizards, it was definitely a bad thing to want to hit on your best friend. Not that he was in love with him, no, that would be silly and pointless and lead to far too much trauma so it couldn't be a possibility. Then he remembered he'd thought the same thing about his chance of being gay, and wanted to kick someone. Preferably himself.

In any event, there was that whole thing about Dean hating him. Which Seamus didn't think would dissipate with the offer of a friendly blowjob. Not that he was the type to offer someone friendly blowjobs.

Right.

Of course, no-one knew about his sexuality, except Pansy, and himself, but that didn't seem quite fair, really. As if he was doing all this unfortunate ogling on false pretences. After all, they didn't know and couldn't suspect. He was behaving like Justin in a sense, and that thought turned his stomach. If Justin Finch-Fletchley was an example of how the closeted gay wizard behaved Seamus didn't want to be closed. Well, technically he didn't want to be gay either, but he figured that no amount of thinking about Hermione in a nightie would change that now. Besides, that mental image made him vaguely nauseous. Some things were meant for Ron only.

It was would be a sort of moral victory, Seamus supposed, as he trudged along the corridors towards Gryffindor Tower. He would tell them, they wouldn't give a toss, and thereby prove there worthlessness as human beings. Or something. It could almost become a parable, or a catechism. A story told to children for their edification and enjoyment. He would have been honest, and upfront, and that was already making the remnants of his strict Catholic conscience breath a sigh of relief and let up on the mental considerations of how many Hail Mary's he'd need to get out of this one: or, considering the Catholic Church's attitude to homosexuality, would he need to be absolved for lying about being gay, and then absolved for being honest about being gay? Really, it was far too confusing for him, so Seamus settled on thinking of other things. Like Malfoy's arse. Ugh. No. Or perhaps Dean- Argh. Double no. Except of course a double negative would be yes, but Seamus curtailed that line of thought by smacking himself across the head.

It was a dark and stormy night, or so the tale went, and it was raining heavily down on Hogwarts. Even secluded by the safe stone walls of Gryffindor Tower, they could feel it heaving about them, the wind and sleet and cold. Warm and cozy in the Gryffindor common room, a small group of students tried so painfully to look inconspicuous, and in doing, stood out like sore thumbs.

Harry Potter sat on the couch, legs slightly splayed, a hand to his head as if he was recovering from a headache or stress, and Hermione Granger, Ronald Weasley, and his sister Ginny were grouped around him. They talked in hushed whiss, glancing occasionally at the other students who were grouped about the commons, in ones or twos or threes, conversing amongst themselves.

Most of them had learnt by now anyway that it did not pay to listen in on the goings-on surrounding Harry Potter. That way lead to possession or petrification or death, so they did their best not to notice.

The entire commons was disturbed by a familiar figure who trod in through the portrait hole as it swung wide open in front of him, wringing his hands, his Gryffindor tie askew and hair slightly ruffled as he came towards the group on the couch, who pointedly ignored him until they could no longer afford to.

"What do you want? Ron asked, grumbling.

Seamus Finnigan wrung his hands some more and looked abjectly uncomfortable. "Well, y'see, I've been going through a lot lately, and stuff, and I just wanted to say that, well, it's difficult for me, but I have to be honest about it all, and I might as well tell you first because you don't give a fuck and if I can tell you I can tell anyone." He paused, bringing his hands firmly down by his side and took a deep breath. "Right. So. You can do it, Seamus," he told himself, and looked up at them again. "I'm gay."

The whole room froze, and there was a long pause. Hermione spoke first.

"Seamus, the whole world knows you're gay."

"Oh." Seamus scuffed his foot on the floor. It was not the reaction he expected, and to be perfectly frank he had no idea where to go from here. "I'll be going, now..." He said, jerking his thumb somewhere undefined, before trotting up the stairwell to the dorms two at a time and scarpering.

Later, before bed, Seamus decided it did make for a lovely little narrative. Although perhaps it had to be twigged to avoid the fact he looked like a fuckwit at the end. It highlighted something he'd always felt around Harry and the others: that he was just a supporting character, guaranteed a walk-on role at best. His only purpose was of sidekick, sounding board and token Irishman: if he tried to do anything more, like have an opinion, Seamus would become an inconvenience, his objections brushed aside by the flow of narrative, the force of history. That was the thing that happened when you had the saviour of the wizarding world as a (estranged) friend: it was Harry's story, and not his, because he could not win the war.

Seamus could imagine future historians reducing him to a mere footnote in the grand path of wizarding history, or "that Irish lad who went to school with Harry Potter." Only fifteen, and he felt the untold generations judging him already, arguing over his motivations, attempting to make sense of him in the scheme of things. Just a character in someone else's book, a part of history, predictable with twenty-twenty hindsight.

It was fucking stifling.

Still, he decided in the end, it could be worse. The Muggles could make one of their films about Harry's life. And knowing his luck, they'd cast someone unbearably ugly in the role. Although they'd had to cast someone hot for Dean. Because you know, he was.

"Argh," said Seamus, once he'd realised what he'd thought.

"Did you just say 'argh'?" Dean whispered, sleepily, and there was a rustle of bedsheets in the nearest bed to him, which was, of course, Dean's.

Seamus froze immediately. It was ages since they'd talked in any way beyond the strictly functional, and he was seized by the fear that if he offended Dean now, that was it, game over. "Uh. No?"

"Come on, I heard you." From the sounds in the dorms, others were beginning to stir, so Seamus did the correct and honourable thing.

He closed his eyes and pretended to snore.