Fic: Memories as a Teacup: Chapter 2
Title: Memories as a Teacup: Chapter 2
Author: wook77
Pairing:: Dean/Seamus (other slash and het pairings contained within)
Rating: PG
100quills prompt: 030. Try
Warnings: Canon compliant through DH. Pre-Epilogue. Additional Warnings at the beginning of Chapter 1.
Wordcount: Overall: ~70k This part: 4500
Summary: Four years ago, Dean Thomas died in the midst of a raid. Seamus saw it happen right in front of his eyes but seeing isn't believing and reality is in the eye of the beholder.
A/N: Many many thanks to nefernat for stepping in and beta'ing this sucker. Also - way back when I started this, oconel and kaalee really helped me out with pointing me in a fantastic direction so they deserve kudos as well. All remaining mistakes are my own. This should be updated weekly. Wordcount for each chapter will vary.
Chapter 1
Pulling at his collar and fidgeting with his belt, Seamus tried to breathe through his nervousness and to calm down. This wasn't going to work if he was obviously nervous. Deep cleansing breath through his nose and Seamus walked through the doors, package secured under his arm.
It was well after the time Dean would normally have arrived at work and a week after the incident in the park. Seamus had finished looking through the photos and found the ones that he could bear to part with and that might convince Dean that he was more than some Muggle office drone. He'd even been practising his speech that gave background and an explanation.
It took quite a bit of charm, some finagling and a promise to meet for drinks together later, to get past the receptionist with directions to Dean's desk. Tugging the brim of his hat lower, Seamus took the lift to the forth floor, stepped off and headed to the right. Then he wove past three offices to the fourth office on the right. He took a deep breath before knocking on the door and poking his head in.
There was no one there so Seamus took a moment to stroll over to the window and look out at the view. The scene was perfect; a wonderful view of the park and even the park bench where he'd spent so much time. It wasn't spacious but it wasn't a closet either. Dean had obviously done all right for himself in the years since he'd lost his memories. There was a nice-sized desk that was far too clean to belong to the Dean he remembered. He smiled at the memory of their laundry tossed all over the floor of their flat. On the desk, he could see a few photos and he set the box down on the corner as he passed on his way to pick up one of the photos.
"Forgot your clipboard, you know." Dean's voice came from the doorway and startled Seamus enough that he almost dropped the photo of a grinning Dean with his arm slung around a young girl he vaguely remembered.
"Aye, well, knew the disguise couldn't be perfect." Now that the moment was here, Seamus's carefully prepared speech failed him. Instead of professing their history or even handing Dean the box of photos, he carefully placed the photo back down onto the desk and then stared, taking in the changes.
"Michelle told me that there was a charming Irish delivery guy waiting for me in my office. Not sure how you got past her when it's hard enough for the rest of us and we work here." Dean leaned against the doorjamb and Seamus smiled at the familiarity of it. His hand shook with the want to touch but he held it back. Muggles were notoriously close-minded about so many things and no matter what Dean's actual history was, as far as he was concerned, he was a Muggle and possibly a straight Muggle at that. No, it wouldn't do to touch Dean in the way he craved. "You're no delivery guy so why don't you tell me why you're really here?"
Arms crossed over chest, Dean's face narrowed and Seamus recognised that posture. It said 'you have five minutes' and it meant it. The only problem was that Seamus thought it might take more than five minutes to figure out where to start, let alone to tell the entire thing.
"This is your sister, right? Farrah, I think?" He gestured towards the photograph he'd been looking at.
"Wrong, Kerry." Dean pushed off the doorjamb and came into the office. "And you didn't come here to look at pictures of my sister."
"I write your mam every year, twice a year, actually. Once on your birthday and once on your, err, once on the day… once on the day I thought you'd died. Nice lady though she never once mentioned you were alive to me in the four years since." He hadn't meant to admit that, hadn't even considered the hurt that omission caused him.
"I'm sure you didn't come here to discuss writing someone's mother either." Dean sounded bored.
"Right. You see, I had this speech prepared, this entire thing with dates and facts that would prove to you that I know you and that we were… mates but it's gone from me head so I'm lucky enough to have brought this," Seamus gestured towards the box, "with me cause seeing is believing, right?"
"What is it?" Dean touched the top of the box and Seamus's heart raced.
"Photographs but I've a favour before you open it." Seamus wanted to rip it away from Dean but he didn't.
"Yeah?"
"These're me only copies so if'n you're tempted to be destroying any of them, I'll ask you to just ignore 'em and give 'em back instead. These," Seamus paused to rub a hand down the side of the box before stepping back quickly, "these are precious to me."
Dean looked at him and Seamus shifted from foot to foot under the gaze. He hadn't meant to sound so needy but they were proof that he'd had something and someone. That meant so much to him and now that he wasn't submerging the feelings and memories, he couldn't bear to part with them. Finally, Dean crossed to the door and shut it.
"I'll open it now." Seamus watched as Dean carefully opened the box and then pulled out the first photograph as he sat behind his desk. It was a Muggle one, just the two of them standing in front of some statue. Creevey had taken it back in second year when he'd been playing with his camera, trying to get it to work.
"We're twelve there, second year at Hogwarts. That's the school we met at. On the train, it was, on the way to our first year when we met." Seamus cut himself off as Dean traced a finger over the photo, same as Seamus himself had done as he placed it in the box. "Should be warning you, some of the photos, they, err, that is, they move."
"Move? Like a film?" Dean set the photograph to the side and picked up another.
"Not quite, no. You'll see."
Dean only rolled his eyes and Seamus gripped his wand just in case Dean made to destroy any. He wasn't going to let it happen. The next photo was another Muggle one, taken right before they'd shoved each other against a wall and broke a table trying to get enough of each other, not that any of that showed though. Instead, they were simply staring at one another. They were twenty and it was a year before Dean had passed.
"You weren't lying." Dean sounded horrified and fascinated.
"I don't make a habit of that, no."
The next photo was one of them brandishing their wands in sixth year and grinning at the camera. Dean flipped the photograph over and then back around again. "How did you do this?"
"I didn't. Creevey, Colin Creevey, did it with his camera. He took these great photos both with a Muggle one and a Wizarding one and…" Seamus clamped a hand over his mouth.
"Muggle? Wizard? Now you're having me on." Dean looked pissed and that wasn't what Seamus had wanted in the least. He scrambled to think of his speech, anything to salvage this encounter that had been going so well.
"I'll explain in a bit, just look at the rest, will you?" Seamus gestured towards the box.
Dean flipped through photograph after photograph, so fast that Seamus lost track of which one he was looking at. He manoeuvred around so that he could peer around Dean and watch as the Dean in the photograph - just a few months before he died - grabbed Seamus around the neck and then dug a fist into his hair, all while yelling something meant to be insulting and slanderous but only really making them laugh.
"'M thinking, in that one, that you were pissed at me for," Seamus didn't want to admit that it was for shoving him into the wet spot in the sheets so he glossed over it, "for something the night before so you were yelling at me. You meant to call me something horrible but all that came out was 'asinine kumquat'. Didn't know what a kumquat was at the time but it didn't sound particularly insulting so we ended up laughing instead. Friend took a photo while we were tussling over it."
"Kumquat?" Dean started to say something more but his intercom rang.
"Mister Thomas? Your appointment is here."
"Thank you, I'll be right down." Dean looked around the office helplessly. "Look, um, that is, um, shite!"
"Seamus, me name's Seamus." That little , more than the rest, brought the reality of the situation home to him. He'd thought that showing a few photos would cause Dean's memories to come ricocheting back, he'd practically counted on it. "Just one more, if you'll let me."
"All right, yeah."
Seamus reached into the box as he spoke, "This, out of everything, is the most important thing in the box. Can't put a price on this, wouldn't be willing to part with it but for this and, well, I thought maybe, if the photos didn't stir a memory, well, an artist always knows his work, right?"
Dean nodded and Seamus finished unearthing the sketch from the bottom of the box. It was a charcoal drawing that Dean had finished two days Before. Bold lines with a viewpoint sketched over the darkness of Dean's shoulder as he pinned Seamus to the ground, hands entwined and only partially on the paper, the drawing showed Seamus looking up with so much love in his eyes that it hurt to look at. It ripped him apart as he stared at the physical proof of everything he'd lost. Seamus couldn't bear to look any longer, couldn't stand it so he watched Dean as his eyes travelled over the drawing.
He knew the moment that Dean saw the writing in the corner between head and bare skin. Only you. Love, Dean. Dean froze and Seamus couldn't look away as emotions flew across Dean's face, so fast that he couldn't identify any of them. Finally, though, Dean looked up and his face was stricken, as if Seamus had killed every one he'd ever loved.
The intercom buzzed again and Michelle's voice piped through, "Mister Thomas? Your appointment?"
"Yeah, yeah, give me a minute." Dean looked from Seamus to the drawing to the phone and cycled back through again.
"I'll go. Me card's in the box. Just send the box back if you're not wanting it or you want to talk or… or whatever," Seamus whispered before heading towards the door.
"Wait," Dean demanded and Seamus paused with his hand on the knob.
"Yes, Mister Thomas?"
"Not you, Michelle, I'll be right down." The intercom clicked and Dean looked at Seamus. "I'll get this back to you."
"Yeah, no rush, really, all the information's on that card and you have a meeting so I'll get out of your hair and… and I'm babbling, aren't I? I'll just leave you to your work and thanks for seeing me and if you want to talk about anything in that box, all me information is on that card and, Christ, I'm babbling again. You'll call?" The obvious and needy hope in his voice embarrassed him but not enough to look away.
"Um, yeah, definitely and," Dean looked to the box again, "yeah."
"All right." Seamus walked out of the office without a backwards glance. He went down to the lift, down to the ground floor and then past Michelle and the waiting appointment.
It was habit to make his way to the bench, even if he spent the time staring at the window he thought was Dean's. He had no idea how long he sat there before Dennis slid onto the bench next to him. It was awkwardly soothing to sit there next to him.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
"I understand. It's fecking unbelievable, yeah? It's fine." As Seamus spoke, he gestured towards the spot. "Wouldn't have believed it meself had it not happened to me."
"Oh." It was more of an exhale than a word and Seamus knew that Dennis still didn't believe him.
"He's up there right now. Handed him some things from before and none of it seemed to make an impression until I showed him a drawing of his. Am thinking he's telling the truth that he doesn't remember a bloody thing." Seamus rubbed at his temple as he spoke. His head felt like it was splitting open. Stress, grief, guilt and lack of sleep all combined into a horrible headache. His stomach churned as well though he thought the fact that he hadn't eaten in days probably contributed to that.
"Still think it's him?" Dennis asked and then only stared straight ahead while Seamus looked at him.
"Nope, I know it's him. You'll see, it's him." Seamus reached out and grabbed Dennis's hand. He turned his palm up so their hands wrapped around one another. "You'll see."
"All right." They lapsed into that comfortable silence they did so well. Seamus took one more look up at the window he thought was Dean's.
~~**~~
"Mum?" Dean called out as he walked into the flat he shared with his parents and sister. He'd meant to move out a year ago but it was too easy to come home to his mum cooking and have family around when he didn't have any other sort of anchor to his past. At least, he hadn't had any other sort of anchor. The box in his hands suddenly weighed more than it had before. The entire afternoon had been consumed with paging through the photographs and drawings, trying to figure out what to make of Seamus and the past that had almost literally landed at his door. If these photographs were real… the thought pressed at him, made his head hurt with all the variables that came from it. Either his mum had lied to him or she didn't know a thing about the school and Seamus and the rest. Considering that his mum had every scrap of paper he'd ever drawn on, the idea that she'd forgotten didn't seem likely.
She came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on an apron and smiled at him. "Dean, you're home early!"
She sounded so excited to see him that he couldn't help the nerves that twisted to make him sick to his stomach. She started to hug him but he pulled back, sidestepping the embrace and setting the box down on the table.
"Where's dad?" He asked as he rested a hand on the top of the box.
"Still at work, of course. What's wrong? Are you feeling all right?" She put the back of her hand against his forehead. "You don't feel warm."
"I'm fine, mum." Except that he wasn't, not in the least. The box under his hand showed him how not fine he and his life really were. "Can we talk?"
"Of course but let me get you something to eat." She started to walk back towards the kitchen.
"Mum? I don't think I could eat, my stomach's in knots. I just really need to talk to you." She immediately turned around and pressed her hand against his forehead again.
"I knew you weren't feeling well. I'll get you something. Sit there, I'll be right back."
"Sit down, mum, please. I just need to talk to you, that's all!" His temper bubbled over and the shame of yelling at his mum didn't help the knots of tension. She looked hurt and he didn't know what to say.
"There's no need to yell, Dean. I'm simply worried over you. It's a mother's right to worry over her baby." They both sat at the table and, before his courage could fail, Dean pushed the box so that it rested between them. "What's this?"
"Open it and see." He watched as she pulled the box in front of her and, with a suspicious look, opened the flaps. Immediately after looking into the box, her expression collapsed, her hand swept up to press against her lips while tears pooled in her eyes. She folded the flaps closed.
"Where did you get this?" Her expression was hard, something that he couldn’t remember her ever using except for the time he'd cut his sister's hair when he'd been five.
"Did you lie to me? About my past?" He asked calmly.
"Who gave you this? Where did you get it?" Her gaze shifted about the room as she refused to look at either Dean or the box.
"Did you lie to me? Mum?" He reached out a hand and rested his palm against her arm. "Did you lie about my past?"
"We're going to get rid of this and pretend you never saw it." She stood and started to grab the box.
"No, mum, we're not." He put his hand on the box, holding it secure against the table. "We're going to talk about what's in it. Maybe start with this?"
Dean pulled out a moving photograph of Seamus and him, smiling and nudging one another. They were maybe fourteen and, as Dean watched, they changed from shoving to slinging an arm over each other's shoulders though Seamus had to struggle because Dean was so much taller. His mother didn't watch, though, she looked off to the side so Dean pushed the photo into her face.
"It moves, mum, it moves and it's me." He looked over at the photo and the box. "It's me."
"Put it out of your mind."
"I can't. It's a piece of my past. Who is this?" Dean pointed to Seamus in the photo. "We both know that you know so just tell me."
"It's for the best, Dean, they hurt you, you almost died," she sounded pained and the tears streaked down her face. "You were happy without this. We'll just get rid of it."
"All right, mum," he hugged her and then grabbed the box and hid it deep in his armoire. He couldn't get rid of it, though. He'd promised.
~~**~~
It was easy to slip back into the comfortable rhythm of the pub meetings. A week after Seamus handed Dean that box, he still hadn't heard back but he had met Dennis for drinks twice. Seamus relied on the easy familiarity between Dennis and him. The main difference from before Dean's reappearance was that, this time, they talked during those pub meetings. They discussed their days, Seamus's position at the International Quidditch Association, Dennis's work at his father's Muggle business and the latest Quidditch matches.
They still didn't speak about Before but conversation, any conversation, was a step in the right direction. A sane direction.
~~**~~
Dean swore he could hear the box calling to him from deep within his armoire. The photos were almost easily dismissed. With today's technology, anyone could have faked the photos. That some of them moved was harder to dismiss but he ignored them, as well.
But the sketch...
The sketch was much harder to dismiss. Giving up his resistance for now, he pulled the box out and then held the sketch. He traced the lines and a hint of a memory tugged at him, almost as if he could remember drawing this if he just concentrated hard enough. The sceptical side of him told him that it was just a flight of fancy, that the only reason it seemed so familiar was because he'd looked at it so much that it had to be familiar. Trace the lines of the sketch often enough and it'll feel familiar.
It wasn't the greatest sketch. Hell, he could do better in ten minutes but that was probably due to practise and experience. Seamus had been right; an artist recognises his or her own work. The heavy lines for shadowing, the way that the lines repeated one over another over another echoed the style he utilised today. He could tell that they were wrestling and that Seamus was fine with losing though the cheeky grin promised retribution. The obvious friendship in the drawing pulled at him more than the familiarity of style.
Not having a past made him wary of approaching people, made it harder to make friends. He'd kept to his parents' flat and only really left to go to work and came back. Sure, he talked to the people at work but he wouldn't say that he was mates with any of them. They didn't meet for drinks after work or anything.
Every time he looked at the box, he wanted to go to his mum or his dad or his sisters and ask but the few times he'd tried, they'd shut down so quickly. He didn't want to rock the boat, not now that they were all on sure footing. But you're not on sure footing, the fanciful side whispered to him.
Shaking off the curiosity, Dean put the drawing back in the box and then put the box back into his armoire.
~~**~~
Two weeks after he'd handed Dean that box, Seamus still hadn't heard from him. Worrying over what could be taking so long but knowing that there were so many years that Dean had lost, Seamus tried to stay patient even as his foot jittered under the table at the pub. Sensing his unease, Dennis bought them both another round and they talked about the latest defeat of the Kestrels.
What they didn't talk about was Dean, the box or Before. It was easier this way and there would, hopefully, be time for it later.
~~**~~
The need to know had overwhelmed Dean to the point that he wasn't able to concentrate at work. He spent most of his time in his room staring at the photographs and the sketch. He had to know, he owed it to himself. Regardless of whether his mum wanted to tell him or not, he was going to ask.
Grabbing the box, Dean walked out into main room and set it down on the table where she was currently reading the paper. "Mum, we're going to talk about this."
"I thought we'd agreed to get rid of this. No good can come of it." She reached out and held on to his wrists. With pleading eyes and tone, she reiterated, "None, do you understand?"
"I don't care anymore. I have to know what happened. I deserve to know what happened." He gently tugged until she released him and he opened the box to show the photograph of Seamus and him at twelve. "Who is this?"
"His name is Seamus," she sounded broken.
"Who was he, though?"
"He's the one that killed you." This time, she didn't sound broken, instead, she sounded angry, her voice raised. "He killed you and I will never forgive him for that."
"How?" This didn't match with what Seamus had told him but this was his mum. Seamus had seemed so angry that Dean hadn't come back but his mum was so angry that he was asking. It just combined into a swirl of confusion.
"I don't know. If I did, he would've been brought up on charges, magic or no." Her eyes widened and then her hands clapped over her mouth.
"Magic? You might as well tell me everything."
"You're better off without any of it. None of it helped you, none. I sent you off to that world and you came back broken. You don't remember any of it and you're better off that way. Just throw this rubbish out and we'll go back to the life you should've had all along!"
"I don't want to go back to this life, mum! I want to know me, don't you see that? I want to know who this," he pulled another photograph out of the box and then another, tossing them on to the table in front of her, shouting as he went, "and this and this and this are! I want to know who both of them are! I want to know me and him and everything!"
"You want to hear about how you used to make things levitate and about how you got embroiled in a war? Want to hear about how you had to go into hiding for a year and we couldn't get anything from you, how I used to think you were dead and I'd cry myself to sleep? You want to hear about how that world gave you nothing but heartache and danger? You paid for it enough. We've paid for it enough!" She stood as she yelled at him. "Seamus Finnigan helped to make sure of that!"
"He said he wrote you about it, twice a year, birthday and the other one." Dean stepped back and raked a hand through his hair. The level of vitriol coming from his mother was completely unexpected. She was so emphatic that he wondered if it was true that Seamus had helped do whatever had been done to him. He just couldn't believe it, though. The grief, gratitude and need that he'd seen in Seamus during their couple of meetings had been too visceral, too real to be faked.
"That's where you got these? From Seamus?" His mother stalked out of the room and before Dean could think of what to do, she was back with a bundle of parchment bound together with a black ribbon. She shoved the bundle into his chest, hissing, "Here, since you wanted to see them. Read all about how he regretted hurting you!"
Dean grabbed the bundle and started to read. The pining grief, even in the most recent ones, assuaged the rest of the doubt that Seamus could've hurt him. There were small stories about things that they'd done or things that had reminded Seamus of Dean. He was reaching out to share his grief and his mother had hidden all of it away.
"How could you keep this from me?" He looked up from the letters to his mother and her face was so shuttered that he couldn't figure out what she was thinking or feeling. Rage swept over him, she was still keeping secrets from him. It wasn't her place to play god with his past. He had a right to know. Hell, his whole family had played god with the past and kept it locked from him. When she still didn't answer, he swept the photos and the letters into the box and then walked out of the flat. His mother called out after him but he refused to listen to her.
As always, I'd love to hear what you thought.
Chapter 3
Author: wook77
Pairing:: Dean/Seamus (other slash and het pairings contained within)
Rating: PG
100quills prompt: 030. Try
Warnings: Canon compliant through DH. Pre-Epilogue. Additional Warnings at the beginning of Chapter 1.
Wordcount: Overall: ~70k This part: 4500
Summary: Four years ago, Dean Thomas died in the midst of a raid. Seamus saw it happen right in front of his eyes but seeing isn't believing and reality is in the eye of the beholder.
A/N: Many many thanks to nefernat for stepping in and beta'ing this sucker. Also - way back when I started this, oconel and kaalee really helped me out with pointing me in a fantastic direction so they deserve kudos as well. All remaining mistakes are my own. This should be updated weekly. Wordcount for each chapter will vary.
Chapter 1
Pulling at his collar and fidgeting with his belt, Seamus tried to breathe through his nervousness and to calm down. This wasn't going to work if he was obviously nervous. Deep cleansing breath through his nose and Seamus walked through the doors, package secured under his arm.
It was well after the time Dean would normally have arrived at work and a week after the incident in the park. Seamus had finished looking through the photos and found the ones that he could bear to part with and that might convince Dean that he was more than some Muggle office drone. He'd even been practising his speech that gave background and an explanation.
It took quite a bit of charm, some finagling and a promise to meet for drinks together later, to get past the receptionist with directions to Dean's desk. Tugging the brim of his hat lower, Seamus took the lift to the forth floor, stepped off and headed to the right. Then he wove past three offices to the fourth office on the right. He took a deep breath before knocking on the door and poking his head in.
There was no one there so Seamus took a moment to stroll over to the window and look out at the view. The scene was perfect; a wonderful view of the park and even the park bench where he'd spent so much time. It wasn't spacious but it wasn't a closet either. Dean had obviously done all right for himself in the years since he'd lost his memories. There was a nice-sized desk that was far too clean to belong to the Dean he remembered. He smiled at the memory of their laundry tossed all over the floor of their flat. On the desk, he could see a few photos and he set the box down on the corner as he passed on his way to pick up one of the photos.
"Forgot your clipboard, you know." Dean's voice came from the doorway and startled Seamus enough that he almost dropped the photo of a grinning Dean with his arm slung around a young girl he vaguely remembered.
"Aye, well, knew the disguise couldn't be perfect." Now that the moment was here, Seamus's carefully prepared speech failed him. Instead of professing their history or even handing Dean the box of photos, he carefully placed the photo back down onto the desk and then stared, taking in the changes.
"Michelle told me that there was a charming Irish delivery guy waiting for me in my office. Not sure how you got past her when it's hard enough for the rest of us and we work here." Dean leaned against the doorjamb and Seamus smiled at the familiarity of it. His hand shook with the want to touch but he held it back. Muggles were notoriously close-minded about so many things and no matter what Dean's actual history was, as far as he was concerned, he was a Muggle and possibly a straight Muggle at that. No, it wouldn't do to touch Dean in the way he craved. "You're no delivery guy so why don't you tell me why you're really here?"
Arms crossed over chest, Dean's face narrowed and Seamus recognised that posture. It said 'you have five minutes' and it meant it. The only problem was that Seamus thought it might take more than five minutes to figure out where to start, let alone to tell the entire thing.
"This is your sister, right? Farrah, I think?" He gestured towards the photograph he'd been looking at.
"Wrong, Kerry." Dean pushed off the doorjamb and came into the office. "And you didn't come here to look at pictures of my sister."
"I write your mam every year, twice a year, actually. Once on your birthday and once on your, err, once on the day… once on the day I thought you'd died. Nice lady though she never once mentioned you were alive to me in the four years since." He hadn't meant to admit that, hadn't even considered the hurt that omission caused him.
"I'm sure you didn't come here to discuss writing someone's mother either." Dean sounded bored.
"Right. You see, I had this speech prepared, this entire thing with dates and facts that would prove to you that I know you and that we were… mates but it's gone from me head so I'm lucky enough to have brought this," Seamus gestured towards the box, "with me cause seeing is believing, right?"
"What is it?" Dean touched the top of the box and Seamus's heart raced.
"Photographs but I've a favour before you open it." Seamus wanted to rip it away from Dean but he didn't.
"Yeah?"
"These're me only copies so if'n you're tempted to be destroying any of them, I'll ask you to just ignore 'em and give 'em back instead. These," Seamus paused to rub a hand down the side of the box before stepping back quickly, "these are precious to me."
Dean looked at him and Seamus shifted from foot to foot under the gaze. He hadn't meant to sound so needy but they were proof that he'd had something and someone. That meant so much to him and now that he wasn't submerging the feelings and memories, he couldn't bear to part with them. Finally, Dean crossed to the door and shut it.
"I'll open it now." Seamus watched as Dean carefully opened the box and then pulled out the first photograph as he sat behind his desk. It was a Muggle one, just the two of them standing in front of some statue. Creevey had taken it back in second year when he'd been playing with his camera, trying to get it to work.
"We're twelve there, second year at Hogwarts. That's the school we met at. On the train, it was, on the way to our first year when we met." Seamus cut himself off as Dean traced a finger over the photo, same as Seamus himself had done as he placed it in the box. "Should be warning you, some of the photos, they, err, that is, they move."
"Move? Like a film?" Dean set the photograph to the side and picked up another.
"Not quite, no. You'll see."
Dean only rolled his eyes and Seamus gripped his wand just in case Dean made to destroy any. He wasn't going to let it happen. The next photo was another Muggle one, taken right before they'd shoved each other against a wall and broke a table trying to get enough of each other, not that any of that showed though. Instead, they were simply staring at one another. They were twenty and it was a year before Dean had passed.
"You weren't lying." Dean sounded horrified and fascinated.
"I don't make a habit of that, no."
The next photo was one of them brandishing their wands in sixth year and grinning at the camera. Dean flipped the photograph over and then back around again. "How did you do this?"
"I didn't. Creevey, Colin Creevey, did it with his camera. He took these great photos both with a Muggle one and a Wizarding one and…" Seamus clamped a hand over his mouth.
"Muggle? Wizard? Now you're having me on." Dean looked pissed and that wasn't what Seamus had wanted in the least. He scrambled to think of his speech, anything to salvage this encounter that had been going so well.
"I'll explain in a bit, just look at the rest, will you?" Seamus gestured towards the box.
Dean flipped through photograph after photograph, so fast that Seamus lost track of which one he was looking at. He manoeuvred around so that he could peer around Dean and watch as the Dean in the photograph - just a few months before he died - grabbed Seamus around the neck and then dug a fist into his hair, all while yelling something meant to be insulting and slanderous but only really making them laugh.
"'M thinking, in that one, that you were pissed at me for," Seamus didn't want to admit that it was for shoving him into the wet spot in the sheets so he glossed over it, "for something the night before so you were yelling at me. You meant to call me something horrible but all that came out was 'asinine kumquat'. Didn't know what a kumquat was at the time but it didn't sound particularly insulting so we ended up laughing instead. Friend took a photo while we were tussling over it."
"Kumquat?" Dean started to say something more but his intercom rang.
"Mister Thomas? Your appointment is here."
"Thank you, I'll be right down." Dean looked around the office helplessly. "Look, um, that is, um, shite!"
"Seamus, me name's Seamus." That little , more than the rest, brought the reality of the situation home to him. He'd thought that showing a few photos would cause Dean's memories to come ricocheting back, he'd practically counted on it. "Just one more, if you'll let me."
"All right, yeah."
Seamus reached into the box as he spoke, "This, out of everything, is the most important thing in the box. Can't put a price on this, wouldn't be willing to part with it but for this and, well, I thought maybe, if the photos didn't stir a memory, well, an artist always knows his work, right?"
Dean nodded and Seamus finished unearthing the sketch from the bottom of the box. It was a charcoal drawing that Dean had finished two days Before. Bold lines with a viewpoint sketched over the darkness of Dean's shoulder as he pinned Seamus to the ground, hands entwined and only partially on the paper, the drawing showed Seamus looking up with so much love in his eyes that it hurt to look at. It ripped him apart as he stared at the physical proof of everything he'd lost. Seamus couldn't bear to look any longer, couldn't stand it so he watched Dean as his eyes travelled over the drawing.
He knew the moment that Dean saw the writing in the corner between head and bare skin. Only you. Love, Dean. Dean froze and Seamus couldn't look away as emotions flew across Dean's face, so fast that he couldn't identify any of them. Finally, though, Dean looked up and his face was stricken, as if Seamus had killed every one he'd ever loved.
The intercom buzzed again and Michelle's voice piped through, "Mister Thomas? Your appointment?"
"Yeah, yeah, give me a minute." Dean looked from Seamus to the drawing to the phone and cycled back through again.
"I'll go. Me card's in the box. Just send the box back if you're not wanting it or you want to talk or… or whatever," Seamus whispered before heading towards the door.
"Wait," Dean demanded and Seamus paused with his hand on the knob.
"Yes, Mister Thomas?"
"Not you, Michelle, I'll be right down." The intercom clicked and Dean looked at Seamus. "I'll get this back to you."
"Yeah, no rush, really, all the information's on that card and you have a meeting so I'll get out of your hair and… and I'm babbling, aren't I? I'll just leave you to your work and thanks for seeing me and if you want to talk about anything in that box, all me information is on that card and, Christ, I'm babbling again. You'll call?" The obvious and needy hope in his voice embarrassed him but not enough to look away.
"Um, yeah, definitely and," Dean looked to the box again, "yeah."
"All right." Seamus walked out of the office without a backwards glance. He went down to the lift, down to the ground floor and then past Michelle and the waiting appointment.
It was habit to make his way to the bench, even if he spent the time staring at the window he thought was Dean's. He had no idea how long he sat there before Dennis slid onto the bench next to him. It was awkwardly soothing to sit there next to him.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
"I understand. It's fecking unbelievable, yeah? It's fine." As Seamus spoke, he gestured towards the spot. "Wouldn't have believed it meself had it not happened to me."
"Oh." It was more of an exhale than a word and Seamus knew that Dennis still didn't believe him.
"He's up there right now. Handed him some things from before and none of it seemed to make an impression until I showed him a drawing of his. Am thinking he's telling the truth that he doesn't remember a bloody thing." Seamus rubbed at his temple as he spoke. His head felt like it was splitting open. Stress, grief, guilt and lack of sleep all combined into a horrible headache. His stomach churned as well though he thought the fact that he hadn't eaten in days probably contributed to that.
"Still think it's him?" Dennis asked and then only stared straight ahead while Seamus looked at him.
"Nope, I know it's him. You'll see, it's him." Seamus reached out and grabbed Dennis's hand. He turned his palm up so their hands wrapped around one another. "You'll see."
"All right." They lapsed into that comfortable silence they did so well. Seamus took one more look up at the window he thought was Dean's.
~~**~~
"Mum?" Dean called out as he walked into the flat he shared with his parents and sister. He'd meant to move out a year ago but it was too easy to come home to his mum cooking and have family around when he didn't have any other sort of anchor to his past. At least, he hadn't had any other sort of anchor. The box in his hands suddenly weighed more than it had before. The entire afternoon had been consumed with paging through the photographs and drawings, trying to figure out what to make of Seamus and the past that had almost literally landed at his door. If these photographs were real… the thought pressed at him, made his head hurt with all the variables that came from it. Either his mum had lied to him or she didn't know a thing about the school and Seamus and the rest. Considering that his mum had every scrap of paper he'd ever drawn on, the idea that she'd forgotten didn't seem likely.
She came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on an apron and smiled at him. "Dean, you're home early!"
She sounded so excited to see him that he couldn't help the nerves that twisted to make him sick to his stomach. She started to hug him but he pulled back, sidestepping the embrace and setting the box down on the table.
"Where's dad?" He asked as he rested a hand on the top of the box.
"Still at work, of course. What's wrong? Are you feeling all right?" She put the back of her hand against his forehead. "You don't feel warm."
"I'm fine, mum." Except that he wasn't, not in the least. The box under his hand showed him how not fine he and his life really were. "Can we talk?"
"Of course but let me get you something to eat." She started to walk back towards the kitchen.
"Mum? I don't think I could eat, my stomach's in knots. I just really need to talk to you." She immediately turned around and pressed her hand against his forehead again.
"I knew you weren't feeling well. I'll get you something. Sit there, I'll be right back."
"Sit down, mum, please. I just need to talk to you, that's all!" His temper bubbled over and the shame of yelling at his mum didn't help the knots of tension. She looked hurt and he didn't know what to say.
"There's no need to yell, Dean. I'm simply worried over you. It's a mother's right to worry over her baby." They both sat at the table and, before his courage could fail, Dean pushed the box so that it rested between them. "What's this?"
"Open it and see." He watched as she pulled the box in front of her and, with a suspicious look, opened the flaps. Immediately after looking into the box, her expression collapsed, her hand swept up to press against her lips while tears pooled in her eyes. She folded the flaps closed.
"Where did you get this?" Her expression was hard, something that he couldn’t remember her ever using except for the time he'd cut his sister's hair when he'd been five.
"Did you lie to me? About my past?" He asked calmly.
"Who gave you this? Where did you get it?" Her gaze shifted about the room as she refused to look at either Dean or the box.
"Did you lie to me? Mum?" He reached out a hand and rested his palm against her arm. "Did you lie about my past?"
"We're going to get rid of this and pretend you never saw it." She stood and started to grab the box.
"No, mum, we're not." He put his hand on the box, holding it secure against the table. "We're going to talk about what's in it. Maybe start with this?"
Dean pulled out a moving photograph of Seamus and him, smiling and nudging one another. They were maybe fourteen and, as Dean watched, they changed from shoving to slinging an arm over each other's shoulders though Seamus had to struggle because Dean was so much taller. His mother didn't watch, though, she looked off to the side so Dean pushed the photo into her face.
"It moves, mum, it moves and it's me." He looked over at the photo and the box. "It's me."
"Put it out of your mind."
"I can't. It's a piece of my past. Who is this?" Dean pointed to Seamus in the photo. "We both know that you know so just tell me."
"It's for the best, Dean, they hurt you, you almost died," she sounded pained and the tears streaked down her face. "You were happy without this. We'll just get rid of it."
"All right, mum," he hugged her and then grabbed the box and hid it deep in his armoire. He couldn't get rid of it, though. He'd promised.
~~**~~
It was easy to slip back into the comfortable rhythm of the pub meetings. A week after Seamus handed Dean that box, he still hadn't heard back but he had met Dennis for drinks twice. Seamus relied on the easy familiarity between Dennis and him. The main difference from before Dean's reappearance was that, this time, they talked during those pub meetings. They discussed their days, Seamus's position at the International Quidditch Association, Dennis's work at his father's Muggle business and the latest Quidditch matches.
They still didn't speak about Before but conversation, any conversation, was a step in the right direction. A sane direction.
~~**~~
Dean swore he could hear the box calling to him from deep within his armoire. The photos were almost easily dismissed. With today's technology, anyone could have faked the photos. That some of them moved was harder to dismiss but he ignored them, as well.
But the sketch...
The sketch was much harder to dismiss. Giving up his resistance for now, he pulled the box out and then held the sketch. He traced the lines and a hint of a memory tugged at him, almost as if he could remember drawing this if he just concentrated hard enough. The sceptical side of him told him that it was just a flight of fancy, that the only reason it seemed so familiar was because he'd looked at it so much that it had to be familiar. Trace the lines of the sketch often enough and it'll feel familiar.
It wasn't the greatest sketch. Hell, he could do better in ten minutes but that was probably due to practise and experience. Seamus had been right; an artist recognises his or her own work. The heavy lines for shadowing, the way that the lines repeated one over another over another echoed the style he utilised today. He could tell that they were wrestling and that Seamus was fine with losing though the cheeky grin promised retribution. The obvious friendship in the drawing pulled at him more than the familiarity of style.
Not having a past made him wary of approaching people, made it harder to make friends. He'd kept to his parents' flat and only really left to go to work and came back. Sure, he talked to the people at work but he wouldn't say that he was mates with any of them. They didn't meet for drinks after work or anything.
Every time he looked at the box, he wanted to go to his mum or his dad or his sisters and ask but the few times he'd tried, they'd shut down so quickly. He didn't want to rock the boat, not now that they were all on sure footing. But you're not on sure footing, the fanciful side whispered to him.
Shaking off the curiosity, Dean put the drawing back in the box and then put the box back into his armoire.
~~**~~
Two weeks after he'd handed Dean that box, Seamus still hadn't heard from him. Worrying over what could be taking so long but knowing that there were so many years that Dean had lost, Seamus tried to stay patient even as his foot jittered under the table at the pub. Sensing his unease, Dennis bought them both another round and they talked about the latest defeat of the Kestrels.
What they didn't talk about was Dean, the box or Before. It was easier this way and there would, hopefully, be time for it later.
~~**~~
The need to know had overwhelmed Dean to the point that he wasn't able to concentrate at work. He spent most of his time in his room staring at the photographs and the sketch. He had to know, he owed it to himself. Regardless of whether his mum wanted to tell him or not, he was going to ask.
Grabbing the box, Dean walked out into main room and set it down on the table where she was currently reading the paper. "Mum, we're going to talk about this."
"I thought we'd agreed to get rid of this. No good can come of it." She reached out and held on to his wrists. With pleading eyes and tone, she reiterated, "None, do you understand?"
"I don't care anymore. I have to know what happened. I deserve to know what happened." He gently tugged until she released him and he opened the box to show the photograph of Seamus and him at twelve. "Who is this?"
"His name is Seamus," she sounded broken.
"Who was he, though?"
"He's the one that killed you." This time, she didn't sound broken, instead, she sounded angry, her voice raised. "He killed you and I will never forgive him for that."
"How?" This didn't match with what Seamus had told him but this was his mum. Seamus had seemed so angry that Dean hadn't come back but his mum was so angry that he was asking. It just combined into a swirl of confusion.
"I don't know. If I did, he would've been brought up on charges, magic or no." Her eyes widened and then her hands clapped over her mouth.
"Magic? You might as well tell me everything."
"You're better off without any of it. None of it helped you, none. I sent you off to that world and you came back broken. You don't remember any of it and you're better off that way. Just throw this rubbish out and we'll go back to the life you should've had all along!"
"I don't want to go back to this life, mum! I want to know me, don't you see that? I want to know who this," he pulled another photograph out of the box and then another, tossing them on to the table in front of her, shouting as he went, "and this and this and this are! I want to know who both of them are! I want to know me and him and everything!"
"You want to hear about how you used to make things levitate and about how you got embroiled in a war? Want to hear about how you had to go into hiding for a year and we couldn't get anything from you, how I used to think you were dead and I'd cry myself to sleep? You want to hear about how that world gave you nothing but heartache and danger? You paid for it enough. We've paid for it enough!" She stood as she yelled at him. "Seamus Finnigan helped to make sure of that!"
"He said he wrote you about it, twice a year, birthday and the other one." Dean stepped back and raked a hand through his hair. The level of vitriol coming from his mother was completely unexpected. She was so emphatic that he wondered if it was true that Seamus had helped do whatever had been done to him. He just couldn't believe it, though. The grief, gratitude and need that he'd seen in Seamus during their couple of meetings had been too visceral, too real to be faked.
"That's where you got these? From Seamus?" His mother stalked out of the room and before Dean could think of what to do, she was back with a bundle of parchment bound together with a black ribbon. She shoved the bundle into his chest, hissing, "Here, since you wanted to see them. Read all about how he regretted hurting you!"
Dean grabbed the bundle and started to read. The pining grief, even in the most recent ones, assuaged the rest of the doubt that Seamus could've hurt him. There were small stories about things that they'd done or things that had reminded Seamus of Dean. He was reaching out to share his grief and his mother had hidden all of it away.
"How could you keep this from me?" He looked up from the letters to his mother and her face was so shuttered that he couldn't figure out what she was thinking or feeling. Rage swept over him, she was still keeping secrets from him. It wasn't her place to play god with his past. He had a right to know. Hell, his whole family had played god with the past and kept it locked from him. When she still didn't answer, he swept the photos and the letters into the box and then walked out of the flat. His mother called out after him but he refused to listen to her.
As always, I'd love to hear what you thought.
Chapter 3