Walks Like Rain

A/N: Seamus/Luna written for my pudding pal, Megan. I should have been writing an essay, she is so clearly my fic pimp.

The basic idea that prompted it was a comparison of Seamus's behavior in OotP versus his desire to stay for Dumbledore's funeral in HPB even when it meant defying his mother. I wondered what had really caused the change. Perhaps Seamus had met a certain day dreaming Ravenclaw who changed his outlook on life...

What's interesting to me is that my take on Seamus/Luna turned out to be very much like Andy/Ally from The Breakfast Club which is a movie and a ship that I absolutely love.

Lyrics from the song Drops of Jupiter by Train were used. It's a very Luna-esque song, I think.

He makes her think of dirt; dirt and cream and kestrels and emeralds and a jacket that's been buttoned wrongly. He sits in her mind with a balance born of one who knows how to fly, though he's not as good at it as he would like to think. She doesn't really mind; talent on a broom has never been a strong attraction for her, she'd much rather he keep his feet on the ground. How else will he be able to keep her from floating away?

He doesn't think of her at all.

She has no illusions. She has dreams and she has goals and she has beliefs, but not illusions. She knows what people call her and she knows what they think. She's not a fool.

They partner once or twice in a club to which neither really belongs; he's there out of a misguided sense of shame, and she has nothing else to do. She admires him for the courage to admit he's wrong. When he stands up and the magic flies, she understands that this is an act of defiance, that he is still using his friends and his heritage as a shield. She wonders how to break through to him, but only echoes his spell.

His mother is fierce and dangerous and powerful and lovely and very like a lioness. She met his mother once, long ago when they were children, but she doubts he remembers. His mother likes her, or would, if she got to know her.

She understands, what it's like to have a parent like that, and why he can't break free. He claws at his cage, and she can't help respecting him for it, though she knows he'll have to fight much harder for his freedom, and that one day, when he's grown too big for the cage, he won't know how.

Sometimes she believes that she doesn't really exist. She spends so much time observing others, that once or twice she's in danger of forgetting who she is. When she stops and pays attention, however, she never has any difficulty remembering.

He doesn't know her, and he doesn't know himself. It's tragic, really, how the little lion cub could have stalked the halls so long without identity. She watches him with professional interest, and judges that he doesn't really deserve that.

She's not his type, which is just fine because he's not hers either. Types is just a word for expectations, and she has always made it her job to defy the expected.

He has a best friend, and she doesn't, but that's all right. Sometimes best friends don't know when to punch you in the face. If she had a best friend, she's pretty sure it wouldn't be human. Humans, she knows, have too many emotions to get in the way.

His grief is masked because he's unimportant. That's no surprise to anyone. He will never be important because he's existing in someone else's story. She feels that way, too, so that's good, but she still feels.

She finds him by the lake, rumpled red and gold striped tie clutched tightly in one fist, smelling strongly of dirt and potatoes and laundry soap. It attacks her nostrils at once and brings her to a stop a few feet away.

He doesn't understand why she's there. So she tells him.

She tells him about the dirt and the cage and the lion and the defiance. She explains that he is really quite like the Swahili Lumbagofish, to which he laughs. Laughter is like a sneeze, in her opinion, and she tells him that, too. It hurts just a bit and it's hard to stop, but you really just need to let it out.

He calls her crazy, but says it with his sweet potato smile, so she knows this time he means no harm.

She tells him that he has to know himself for the first time in his life, and offers him a cake with a nail file baked in. He dips a finger in the icing, but isn't ready to eat. Instead, he sits with his back against the tree, fingers winding around the tie that clashes so easily with hers, and asks her to tell him a story.

She tells him a story, a story of a girl who is like the moon and milk and opals and paprika and rumours and strangeness. This girl, she says, acts like summer and walks like rain. She listens like spring and she talks like June. She doesn't exist in other people's minds, and sometimes, she doesn't exist in her own.

She chooses where she wants to go, where she wants to stay. Her fear/anger/sadness/joy are all her own and she has delight at picking each emotion to be felt. She knows a boy, and she might love him, but then again she might not. She'd like to teach him, if he wants to learn.

She wants to dance among the stars, quest for strange beasts, and understand the universe on her own terms. Her life will be lived, however short it may be. She will wear crazy hats and sing crazy songs and love crazy men so long as she wants.

Her brilliance and liberty strike a chord with him, and when she's telling him the story, he looks up and says, I think I know how this one ends.