Confessions and Epiphanies of a Gay, Black Wizard

[gretagarbled.livejournal.com]

Title: Confessions and Epiphanies of a Gay, Black Wizard.
Author: authoress_girl
Part: 1/6
Other pairings/characters: Dean/Ginny, Ron/Hermione, Harry/Ginny, Seamus/Blaise
Rating: NC-17, methinks.
Fair Warnings: Het, fair bit of language, non-chronological timeline, sex and angst.

Summary: Dean’s Hogwarts career and beyond, as seen through the twin lenses of race and sexuality.
Disclaimer: Wait, this story isn’t canon? No, I don’t own them.
Author's Notes: I was thinking about writing a really comprehensive essay on race and sexuality in Harry Potter, but then I realised how hard it would be to write a full-length paper on a handful of minor characters and one old man who likes knitting patterns, so this story was born. Also, it’s my first fanfic, so thorough and honest concrit would be much appreciated :) My eternal gratitude goes to swissmarg  for her amazing and incredibly comprehensive beta skills. All mistakes are mine.

 

 

Sometime around the end of fifth year, Dean Thomas came to the conclusion that it was perfectly all right to stare at Seamus Finnigan because Seamus was original and as an artist, Dean was drawn to originality like a moth to a flame; it was his lifeblood. So it was all Seamus’ fault, if you thought it through rationally. Seamus insisted on telling the most mundane stories in a way that could make you listen despite yourself. He also wore smudged eyeliner and chipped, sparkly nail polish and a long, sandy-blond fringe that refused to stay out of his eyes as if he were the first boy to ever be a little androgynous and a little... how to put it?... sexually flexible. Sometimes, Dean really, really wanted to be angry at him because honestly, the staring thing had been fun at first and incredibly rewarding in terms of the ridiculous amount of time he’d spent sketching the stupid boy, but now his essays were piling up and he was barely sleeping. But then Seamus would catch his eye and grin at him as if he was the most fantastic thing in the world, and Dean would be drawn into the contrast between his pearly teeth and rose-coloured lips, the way the sun caught his normally sandy, ashen blond hair and turned it to spun gold and the way happiness could make his eyes sparkle like jewels. Then Dean would mentally slap himself and wonder when and how the fuck he’d turned into such a bloody girl.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Dean was pretty sure he’d been straight at one point in his life. He seemed to remember a time in his early adolescence when just the thought of breasts could make him so hard that he would almost weep with the pain and the pleasure of it; discovering the joy of his right hand (and the left one, when the right got too tired) had been both a relief and an increase in the weird, new pressure that seemed to settle over the top of his skull like a humid summer afternoon each time he thought of something vaguely sexual. Third year was the first time Dean and Seamus ever had a conversation regarding the subject of girls.

 

“Dean?”

 

“Mmmm?”

 

“You awake?”

 

“I am now.”

 

Dean heard a low chuckle emerge from behind Seamus’ curtains. “Don’t pretend that you’ve been asleep all this time.”

 

“How would you know?” Dean answered indignantly. “I could have been far into the Land of Nod, for all you know.”

 

He heard a snort. “Dean.” Seamus’ voice was rich with a smile. “I’ve shared a dormitory with you for almost three years. I know what you sound like when you sleep.”

 

Dean paused; he didn’t know what to make of this. “I don’t know whether to be flattered or incredibly disturbed,” he said finally.

 

Seamus didn’t answer with words; instead, he let his hand, ghost-white in the moonlight, float outside of his curtains with the middle finger up. Dean laughed.

 

“What do you want?” he asked.

 

Dean heard Seamus sigh. “Dean?”

 

“Yes?” He drew out the word’s single vowel warily.

 

“What do you think about Lavender?”

 

Dean frowned up at his canopy. “What do you mean?”

 

“Exactly what I said. D’you think she’s nice?”

 

“I suppose so,” Dean said, shrugging even though he knew Seamus couldn’t see him. “She’s all right if you like that kind of thing.”

 

“What kind of thing?” There was a rustle from Seamus’ bed. The gap in the curtains became a proper divide, and Dean could see Seamus’ sleep-tousled hair and his mismatched green pyjamas. He was sitting in a cross-legged position with his elbows in the crooks of his knees and his chin on his palms.

 

“You know.” Dean adjusted himself to a reclining position on his elbows. “The girly, pink thing,” he added, not bothering to lower his voice; he could hear the little snuffles that meant Neville was dead to the world. There was complete silence from Harry and Ron’s end; they were probably under the influence of the sleeping charms Flitwick had instructed them to practise the previous day.

 

Seamus said nothing; he only raised his eyebrows.

 

Dean rolled his eyes. “You know,” he said, annoyed. He was beginning to wish he could draw some kind of diagram or flowchart or even a foot-long essay to show exactly what he meant. Parchment and paper were much more forgiving than human ears. “She twitters on about hair potions and love spells and Celestina Warbeck, and while there’s nothing wrong with that, she’s just not really what I’d go for.”

 

Seamus nodded thoughtfully. “Who would you go for?”

 

Dean thought and didn’t actually know which name was going to pop out of his mouth until he heard himself saying: “Ginny Weasley.”

 

Seamus threw his head back and crowed loudly, with complete disregard for the other sleeping boys. Luckily, none of them stirred. “Ginny Weasley? Oh, ho, ho, Ron is going to kill you!”

 

Dean sat up fiercely and scowled at him. “No, he won’t, because there’ll be nothing to kill me for, because you’re not going to say anything.”

 

Seamus snorted at his attempted threat. “Stand down, Thomas. Anyway, why her?”

 

Dean shrugged. “I don’t know. She’s good on a broom. And she likes my drawings. Like, really likes them.”

 

Seamus shook his head. “Big head.”

 

Dean lay back and got under his covers again. “It is the way of the artist,” he sighed melodramatically.

 

Seamus laughed quietly. “Goodnight, Dean.”

 

“G’night, Seamus,” he said tiredly, already yawning.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

It was when he was in fourth year that Dean Thomas noticed – in a very quiet way – that he was one of very few black students at Hogwarts. For some reason, he felt a strange guilt that he hadn’t been aware of this, that he hadn’t taken more notice of what he felt was his blackness. He didn’t even know why he felt so bad about it, he just did.

 

He did a quick survey at breakfast the next day; at his table, there was himself, Lee Jordan and Angelina Johnson in the Weasley twins’ year and Demelza Robbins in the year below (or was it two years?). Blaise Zabini was at the Slytherin table and in his year and a few taller black girls and boys he assumed were in the years above. The same applied to the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw: none in his year, but a few in the years above. And if he widened his criteria to ethnic minorities in general, there was Parvati Patil in Gryffindor and her twin sister, Padma in Ravenclaw, who were both Indian, and Cho Chang in Ravenclaw was Chinese. He chewed his toast ruminatively.

 

“Hello, Earth to Dean. What’s up?” Seamus was shaking him gently.

 

“Hmm? Oh, nothing, just...” He made a vague hand gesture against his head and went back to his breakfast, still considering his odd epiphany of sorts.

 

He thought about it all day, turning over this new and yet not at all new information in his mind, wondering why the hell it was suddenly so important to him after all these years. It wasn’t until he got to History of Magic in his fifth period that the Great Lightning Bolt of Why hit him. Binns was wittering on about the Goblin Rebellion of 1785 or whatever, when he said in response to Hermione’s question: “This was because the wizarding race was under severe threat from the new forms of magic the goblins had created...”

 

He realised that the concept of race was different in the wizarding world; it meant something completely different to what it meant in the Muggle world because of the whole ‘pureblood/Muggle-born’ fight. The surprise and realisation and confusion must have shown on his face, because Seamus nudged him and poked him with a finger that ended in a perfect, suspiciously glossy fingernail.

 

“Dean, you’re going to tell me what the hell is up with you. I’ve got some Firewhiskey under my bed. ‘Kay?”

 

Dean snorted under his breath. Seamus and Firewhiskey. This should be interesting, he thought to himself.

 

                                                *                                  *                                  *

 

Dean was in Seamus’ bed with him, two large bottles of Firewhiskey and an obscenely varied selection of Honeydukes’ finest produce sitting between them. They were already halfway through the sweets and a quarter of the way through the Firewhiskey (it had been Dean’s idea to line their stomachs first). For all his bluster and his desperation to live up to the stereotype that the Irish could drink the rest of the world under the table and thus save the face of ‘his people’, as he termed his countrymen, Seamus couldn’t hold his alcohol for shit. About two months ago at the Yule Ball, the two of them had managed to shake off their respective dates and lift some contraband alcohol – it was a weird, pink colour and it was sparkly, but it was alcohol – and Seamus had ended up getting completely smashed on two glasses, something Dean had not stopped taking the piss out of him for.

 

They ate and drank in silence until Seamus said: “So, you gonna tell me what’s been biting you all day?”

 

Dean sighed. He was drunk enough for this; it had loosened his tongue. And after another glass or two, Seamus would be drunk enough to forget this. And you know, out of the fullness of the heart, the mouth speaketh and whatnot.

 

“Seamus, do you think of me as black?”

 

Seamus squinted and his whole body seemed to move with it. “What d’you mean?”

 

“Do you think of me as black?” Dean repeated his question; his throat suddenly became very dry and he reached for the Firewhiskey, taking a long slug.

 

“Well, yeah... I mean, you are black,” he said slowly, as if Dean was a very stupid child. Dean rolled his eyes in annoyance and felt them continue to move in his skull of their own accord, like marbles; maybe he was more of a lightweight than he’d thought.

 

“I know that,” he said. “But is it... is it all you see when you look at me?”

 

Seamus snorted, collapsing into giggles. “No, not at all. Mostly I think that you’re really fecking tall. Like, a giant. And that you’re always silent around people you don’t know or don’t feel comfortable with. Oh, and let’s not forget the fact that you’re a feckin’ art genius who’s gonna have owls chasing him constantly for portrait commissions when all you want to do is draw pictures of the people in Gryffindor. I mean, yeah, you’re black, but it’s not all I think about. When I think about your skin, mostly I wonder whether you ever get the feckin’ awful farmer’s tan I get every summer.”

 

Dean was chewing down on a Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Bean when Seamus said that last part and ended up inadvertently biting down on his tongue; he could taste blood mixing with the sugary pumpkin flavour in his mouth in the strangest way. He took another deep swallow from the bottle and then ate two Chocolate Frogs in quick succession; he’d heal it later. In the state he was in now, he’d probably end up Vanishing his teeth.

 

“Farmer’s tan?” he asked stupidly.

 

Seamus nodded sedately. “Yeah. Your face always gets a little darker in the summer months, but I’ve never been able to work out whether it looks really different to your torso.”

 

Dean tried to work out something in his mind. “But you always walk around naked! How could you get a farmer’s tan?”

 

Seamus looked at him askance. “Not outside.” He sat up, face flushed and uniform askew as if he’d fallen asleep. “But what’s brought all this on?”

 

“I was just thinking about being black and at Hogwarts and I can’t even remember why now.” Dean swept his hand over his face and blinked, trying and failing to clear his head of the pleasant, cotton-wool feeling inside his skull. “You know Blaise Zabini’s the only black boy in our year?”

 

“Mmm.” For some reason, Seamus’ face was flushed. He squirmed.

 

“What’s the matter?” It was Dean’s turn to ask that question.

 

Seamus shook his head. “It’s nothing.”

 

“Seamus, it obviously is something. You’re bright red and you’re acting all... shifty.”

 

“Shifty?”

 

Dean folded his arms. “Don’t change the subject, Seamus.”

 

Seamus took a Sugar Quill and started sucking, still not meeting Dean’s eyes. “Blaise Zabini asked me to go with him to the next Hogsmeade weekend,” he said finally.

 

Dean’s eyes almost popped out of his head. “You turned him down?” he asked, almost as a statement as opposed to a question.

 

Seamus was quiet. “No. No, I didn’t turn him down,” he mumbled around his Quill.

 

“You said yes.”

 

“Yes. I said yes.”

 

Dean stared at him for a good minute. He was feeling an odd kind of nausea that might have had something to do with the booze and the Acid Pops and the Chocolate Frogs and the Fizzing Whizbees and all the other mental-sounding sweets he had eaten, but most likely had something more to do with the fact that there was something hot and sick-feeling swooping around in his stomach. The thought of Zabini talking to Seamus and holding hands with him and kissing, oh God, the thought of that was just too much because now there was a vice-like pressure on his temples and his lungs felt as if they were shrinking by a cubic centimetre per millisecond.

 

“Dean?” Seamus’ voice was tiny.

 

He wasn’t aware that he’d shut his eyes until he opened them. Seamus had the worried, contrite look normally reserved for their fairly rare post-argument make-up talks. “Yeah?”

 

“You’re not... you’re not angry, are you?”

 

“God, no. No, I could never... no. Seamus, it’s not you, it’s just...” He pursed his lips. “Couldn’t you have found a nicer boy to go out with than that git Zabini?”

 

Seamus released a cackle that held a fair amount of relief, Dean realised. “Is that it?”

 

“God, Seamus, come here.” He opened his arms, trying to ignore the swaying motion that followed. Seamus scrambled up into them and Dean was hit with his warmth and the lithe, small build of his body and the clean, powdery smell that Seamus’ hair always gave off, one that reminded him of the scent of the tops of babies’ heads. He nuzzled into Seamus’ hair to get more of the smell, knowing he wouldn’t mind.

 

“Thank you, Dean,” Seamus mumbled from somewhere near his armpit.

 

It was only when he was rolling over in his own bed, trying not to move too fast lest he threw up, that he remembered that Blaise Zabini was a boy. And so was Seamus.

Part Two