Confessions and Epiphanies of a Gay, Black Wizard

[gretagarbled.livejournal.com]

Title: Confessions and Epiphanies of a Gay, Black Wizard.
Author: authoress_girl
Part: 5/6
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.
 

 

 

Dean wasn’t the world’s biggest Quidditch fan by a long shot (it would never be the same as seeing West Ham play at home and besides, that was Ron’s job) but he definitely enjoyed it: the breakneck speed the game was played at, the crazy rules and traditions and how it united everyone, sporty or not. Football fanatic that he was, Dean knew that watching men kick a ball around for ninety-odd minutes would only ever be an acquired taste for some, but even Hermione turned up to Quidditch games and roared with the best of them. And given Ravenclaw’s reputation for scholarly introversion, it was an achievement in itself that they had a Quidditch team at all. Being invited to the Quidditch World Cup Final was not an opportunity Dean would not turn down, football fanatic or not.

 

“Dean! I’ve got some more of your clean underwear here. Are you sure you don’t need any more pants?” his mother shouted from downstairs.

 

“I’ll be fine, Mum!” he shouted back, rolling his eyes affectionately at his mother’s bellows-like voice; he was sure his neighbours knew everything about his family thanks to her. He reviewed his trunk mentally, and feeling content that he had everything with him, he shut it and kicked it into place beside his bed. He sprinted downstairs for breakfast.

 

Everyone was already assembled at the table when he got to the kitchen. “Good morning, Dean.” His step-father greeted him with his usual morning sobriety.

 

“Morning, Dad.” Dean sat down at his place and grabbed a piece of toast. “Sabina, can you pass me the orange juice, please?”

 

Instead of passing him the juice or even making fun of him before she gave it to him, Sabina glared at him. Without a word, she got up from the table and walked out of the kitchen; Dean could hear her precise, little steps all the way up to her bedroom. He looked to his parents. His mother was frowning at the ceiling.

 

“Dean,” she began in a low voice, the dangerous one. “What have you done to your sister?”

 

Dean was genuinely confused. “I didn’t do anything!”

 

“Don’t raise your voice to your mother, Dean,” his step-father said automatically. “I’m sure there’s a reason for Sabina’s behaviour, so just go up and talk to her.” He took a sip of black and unsweetened coffee, the kind Dean had always hated. “After all, you won’t get an opportunity to speak to her properly until the Christmas holidays if you don’t resolve it now.”

 

Dean blew out his cheeks in annoyance. He hated it when Sabina got all weepy.

 

*                                  *                                  *

 

“Sabina?”

 

“Go away!” He could hear sniffling through the door.

 

“Sabina, I can’t say sorry if I don’t know what I’ve done wrong.” There was silence. He took this as a cue to come in and came in to see his younger sister crouched at the foot of her bed, with red-rimmed eyes.

 

“Sabina?”

 

She turned away from him slightly, but he ignored this and sat beside her anyway.

 

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

 

She sniffed again. “You’re going to laugh at me.”

 

Dean put his hand on his heart. “I swear I won’t.”

 

She nodded and hunched in on herself. “You... you like Seamus more than me,” she said finally.

 

“What?” Dean was so surprised that he almost laughed. Looking at Sabina’s face, he was glad that he’d managed to restrain himself.

 

“You like him more than me. That’s why you’re going away today instead of the first of September and...” She struggled for a few more seconds, then gave up and sobbed with abandon. Dean slung an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close.

 

“Come here, you silly girl,” he said with a mock-grouchy voice. “You’re my sister. No-one comes before that, Sabina. No-one.”

 

She sniffed loudly. “No-one?”

 

“Not even Seamus,” he said firmly. “This year’s only an exception because the Quidditch World Cup’s being held in Britain and you know how huge that is. It would be just the same if the football World Cup came to Britain, except I’d be able to drag you along with me.” He hugged her tightly and she wiped at her face, embarrassment settling over her.

 

“You promise you’ll write to me?” she asked in a quiet voice.

 

He nodded. “Every day, if you want me to.”

 

She looked up at him with a mischievous expression on her face. “Will you bring me back any goodies from the World Cup?”

 

Dean shoved his sister. “And here I was, thinking that you wanted me to write to you for the sheer pleasure of my sparkling wit!” he shouted in mock-annoyance.

 

Sabina snorted inelegantly. “If your wit was the best thing about you, you’d be in Ravenclaw.”

 

Dean shoved her again, this time whacking her with a pillow for extra measure. He pretended to be offended, although he was secretly pleased that she remembered all of the trivial things he’d told her.

 

Unbeknownst to the two of them, their mother watched the siblings with heartbreaking softness in her eyes.

 

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

 

It wasn’t so much the fact that Ginny had kissed Harry that was bothering him. No, what was really getting under his skin was the way she hadn’t even bothered to break up with him first before publicly humiliating him in front of his entire House. He glared at his canopy. He knew that he could hardly talk, what with the odd... thing he seemed to have going on with Seamus, but at least he’d had the decency to hide his indiscretions. No wonder everyone thought she was a slag.

 

That was unfair, and you know it, said his conscience, a voice that always sounded alarmingly like his mother. He sighed. The voice was right, though; it was unfair of him to say that. He knew, deep down, that he’d only been a distraction, a rung on the ladder to Harry, but it still stung. He thought briefly about the bottle of mead that he knew was under Seamus’ bed, but decided against it. Drinking alone didn’t just make him pathetic, it made him unhealthy. Plus, it was never really that fun getting drunk without Seamus’ stupid songs and bawdy poems.

 

There was a rustling at his curtains and the very same person he’d been thinking of stuck his head into the self-contained chamber Dean had created. He wore a very wary expression, as if Dean were a wild animal about to pounce at any minute.

 

“Hey,” he said softly.

 

“Hey yourself,” Dean replied. “What brings you here?”

 

“Wanted to see if you’re all right,” Seamus said. “Even though I’m probably the last person you want to see.” He was still standing with his head inside Dean’s four-poster curtains and his body outside, which was weird for him; normally he just clambered in, Dean’s comfort level be damned.

 

Dean frowned at him, puzzled. “Why?”

 

Seamus looked at him askance. “Because of the whole Ginny thing...”

 

Dean shook his head and, with quite a bit of faffing about, pulled Seamus onto his bed and wrapped himself around the slightly shorter boy’s midsection. “You’re not the last person I’d want to see,” Dean murmured into Seamus’ shoulder-blade. “And I’m almost over Ginny. I’m more offended than upset, really.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Mmm. They can have each other.” Dean reached forward slightly and held Seamus’ hand. “I’m not fussed about either of them. It’s just a matter of courtesy.”

 

Seamus snorted and turned around to face Dean. “Yeah, like the courtesy we showed her when you blew me in the library.”

 

Dean grinned at the memory. “Exactly, I blew you behind a bookshelf where all the obscure books that no-one except Hermione reads are kept. And on a Sunday evening, no less! I didn’t suck you off in the middle of the room room after a Quidditch match with the whole House watching.”

 

“Fair point.”

 

Dean hummed his agreement and kissed Seamus’ hand. They were silent until Seamus said:

 

“Dean... I don’t want to push things, but... where do we go from here? I mean, I understand if you want some space or whatever, I get it, I mean, it’s a big thing and all–” Seamus’ panicky ramble was interrupted by Dean kissing him.

 

“Oh.” was all Seamus said after they pulled away. Dean stared at him silently, wondering how he’d managed to be so oblivious for so long. He was about to say something when the curtains parted yet again and Harry poked his head though.

 

“Dean, I – oh, I’m sorry, I – what?” He paused, his face bright red. He opened his mouth a few times like a goldfish, but then took a deep breath. “I’m confused.”

 

On seeing Dean’s glare, he blushed even harder. “I’m sorry, I don’t really have a right to question you, after... after that.” Harry waved his hand in the general direction of the dormitory door.

 

Dean disentangled himself from Seamus to sit cross-legged on his bed. “No, you don’t. Not at all.”

 

Harry shook his head. “I’m really sorry about that, Dean. We weren’t going behind your back or anything, but I’ve liked her for so long, so when she... I just couldn’t...” Harry took a deep breath again. “But that’s no excuse. So, I’m sorry.”

 

Even without the scar and the ‘Boy-Who-Lived’ tag, Dean could see why people were drawn to Harry; in short, he was adorable. Throughout his ramble of an apology, Dean found it harder and harder to bear any anger towards him, if only because Harry genuinely looked as if it would cause him physical pain if Dean stayed angry with him. He sighed heavily. He really did wish he could hold a grudge properly.

 

Dean shrugged. “Don’t worry about it,” he said finally.

 

“What?” asked Harry in confusion.

 

Dean rolled his eyes. “I’ve seen the way you look at her, Harry. Just... just look after her, okay?”

 

Harry grinned and disappeared; Dean heard his footsteps fade away and door slam shut. He lay back on the bed with a whooshing noise. Seamus looked down at him.

 

“Sometimes, I think you’re too kind,” he said to Dean. Dean looked at him quizzically. “Then we have a fight,” Seamus continued. “And I thank God that you’re not the kind of person who knows how to let their feelings fester.”

 

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

 

He was somewhere in East London; he knew that much from endless Tube-hopping with his sister of a summer afternoon. He’d just left a random Muggle pub when he noticed someone vaguely familiar following him. He knew it wasn’t someone from Hogwarts; this man was far too old for that. Perhaps Dean had seen him in Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade. More likely Diagon Alley, Dean thought. Hogsmeade was more like a university town than anything else. Dean twisted and turned in the bowels of Bethnal Green, but still this man was following him. He was shabby-looking and slightly underfed; Dean could see the hollows in his cheeks and felt his own stomach give a sympathetic rumble.

 

He walked faster; the man behind him did the same. Dean stopped to linger at the window of a bakery; he felt the man slow down and remain some distance behind him. He didn’t know how long this cat-and-mouse game would go on for, and he was tired and cold and the night was dark and cold and he missed home like mad. All Dean wanted to do was find somewhere with half-decent meals and enough privacy that he could look at his sketches and photos of his loved ones. Sudden irritation flared through him.

 

He turned into a deserted street and span around so quickly that the strange man didn’t even have time to look ashamed of himself, let alone walk in a different direction.

 

“I’m sorry, are you lost?” Dean asked as politely as he could.

 

“No, but you seem to be,” the man replied. Dean suddenly realised he had seen the strange man before; when Dean went to Diagon Alley to clear his Gringott’s vault during the summer holidays (a small and uncharacteristic extravagance of his mother), this man had been part of some kind of gang. They hadn’t done actually done anything other than stare balefully at people, but in the climate of fear that pervaded the wizarding world, staring balefully was enough.

 

Dean stared. “I’m not lost,” he said slowly. “I’ve been trying to shake you off for the past hour and a half.”

 

“Well.” The man drew the vowel out. “If you’d stayed at Hogwarts, we wouldn’t be in this situation now, would we?”

 

The blood in Dean’s veins froze, and before he knew what he was doing, his wand was in his hand and he was throwing wordless curses and jinxes at the Snatcher. His DA lessons flooded back to him and images and dreams of Sabina and Seamus and, oh God, his mother and his step-dad and the father he never known swam behind his eyes, giving an edge to his hexes. Dean could feel his skin splitting and bruising in places where the impact from the stranger’s spells hit.

 

The CRACK of Apparition sounded behind him and he cast a quick, wordless Shield Charm and turned around, throwing curses to shackle them, cut them, boil them...

 

They had become mere shapes through Dean’s blood-and-sweat-blurred vision and in his desperation, he screamed, “INCENDIO!” A veritable dragon of fire shot from his wand and Dean heard screams of pain with a vague kind of satisfaction. He began to sprint for his life. He was alone with the thumping sound of his own footfall and the whisper of his breath in his lungs for a few minutes when he heard what sounded like the gang of Snatchers catching up with him. Not thinking anything except get me away from them safely, he Apparated into thin air.

 

                                                            *                                  *                                  *

 

When Dean came to, he wrapped up in something warm. He was lying on something soft and all of his limbs were heavy, in a pleasant way reminiscent of lazy Saturday mornings.

 

If this is Heaven, he thought. Please let it be July. Please let it be the summer holidays before my seventh year. Please let me see Seamus and Sabina and Mum and Dad and...

 

“Ted, I think he’s waking up!” An unfamiliar male voice called out to a man called Ted somewhere from Dean’s left side. Dean didn’t open his eyes for a few seconds; the disappointment overwhelmed him, and the force of his emotions surprised him. He breathed in deeply and opened his eyes. The light was warm and cosy-looking, and a man with serious eyes and light brown hair sat to his left.

 

Dean sat up and was immediately struck with a violent coughing fit. He threw up what felt like an ocean.

 

“Come on now, there we are,” the serious-eyed man said soothingly. Dean felt him patting his back hard, and more water came out of his mouth; he didn’t know where he was even keeping it. He took a deep breath, ignoring the way his whole throat felt like sandpaper.

 

“You swallowed a lot of water,” the stranger continued. “But you should be all right once we cast a few healing spells on your throat and your lungs. What’s your name?”

 

“Dean. Dean Thomas.”

 

“Well, I’m Dirk Creswell,” the man answered. He paused and scrutinised Dean’s face intently. “I don’t recognise you, though. You don’t work at the Ministry, do you?”

 

Dean shook his head minutely. “No, I... erm, I’m kind of on the run. I should be in my seventh year at Hogwarts, but...” he trailed off, the dull ache that was always in his heart flaring into a sting at the name of his second home.

 

Dirk nodded seriously. “Ah, well. That makes sense. You a Muggle-born too?”

 

Dean shrugged. He wanted to lie down and sleep again, but that would be rude. “No, I don’t actually know. My dad went missing a few months after I was born and I don’t know whether he was a wizard or a Muggle or what, but...”

 

“But you felt it was better to be safe than sorry,” Dirk finished for him. “You’re a sensible boy, Dean.”

 

“Thanks,” Dean replied, exhaustion making him slur the single word slightly. Dirk pushed him gently until he was lying on his back.

 

“I think you need to get some more rest, Dean.” Dirk pulled the blankets back over him. “I’ll introduce you to the others when you’re feeling more up to it.”

 

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

 

“Deeeean...”

 

Their friendship might have only been months old, but Dean knew that whatever followed Seamus’ pleading voice would either be annoying or uncomfortable. Or both. He looked up from his Charms homework.

 

Seamus sat at the little table with him and grinned, resting his chin on steepled fingers. Dean rolled his eyes.

 

“Out with it.”

 

Seamus sighed. “I sort of told Hermione you’d make the banner for Harry’s first match,” he said in a very quick breath.

 

“No,” said Dean flatly and went back to his work.

 

“Please, Dean! Your drawings are amazing!” Seamus pleaded. It was an old argument, one that had started when Dean had lent Seamus notes about Devil’s Snare and had seen the little doodle of the plant in question engaged in a battle to the death with the Giant Squid inked into the corner of the parchment. Ever since, Seamus had been pestering him to set up shop in caricatures and so far, Dean had been steadfast in his refusal.

 

“I don’t want to show them to anyone,” Dean said through gritted teeth.

 

“Why not?”

 

Dean shrugged. “You wouldn’t understand.”

 

Seamus folded his arms. “So make me.”

 

Dean sighed and silently cursed Seamus’ doggedness. “I just... It’s just that the serious drawings are private.”

 

“So make this one a light-hearted one.”

 

Dean put down his quill. “It’s not that. It’s just that drawings are like a diary for me. They’re private.”

 

Seamus gave him a sceptical look. “Okay, first of all, I’m not asking for a huge, moving portrait, all you have to do is draw a bloody lion. And second, if your drawings are so private, why do they keep appearing all over your essays, on your books, on desks?”

 

Dean stared at him, stumped.

 

“You’re an artist, Dean. Artists need audiences. And besides, sometimes the best work we do is the work that feels like you’ve drawn blood out of a stone to produce.”

 

Dean continued to stare at him.

 

“What?” Seamus asked, squirming with twitchy defensiveness.

 

“When did you get so... so wise?”

 

Seamus grinned. “I’ve always been this wise, Thomas. Glad that you’ve finally decided to get a clue.”

 

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

 

The silence between the Gryffindor boys was heavy as they packed their trunks. Not even the last day of their fourth year had been so grave; somehow, the death of their Headmaster, the brightest beacon of Light magic against the Dark, seemed a much more serious indicator of the grimness of the looming war than that of a seventeen-year-old boy. That wasn’t to say that they hadn’t grieved that year, because they had: for Cedric, for his family, for Harry and his loss of innocence, for the sheer waste of life before it had ever really truly blossomed. But this was different; it was blank shock and a bone-numbingly cold fear, it was uncertainty and confusion and yet more fear.

 

Harry slammed his trunk shut with a final-sounding thud and swept out of the dormitory, Ron following him with an expression that made him look decades older than his seventeen years. Neville looked at Dean and Seamus, muttered something about greenhouses and followed Harry and Ron’s example by leaving the room a few moments later.

 

Dean looked over at Seamus, who was slowly sorting out his Quidditch knick-knacks.

 

“Seamus,” he said quietly. Seamus looked at him, still holding a small Gryffindor banner; Dean looked closer and saw that it was one he’d made himself.

 

“Mam’s not gonna let me come back next year.” Seamus almost seemed to be talking to himself. “It was hard enough convincing her to let me come back in our fifth year, and then I had to argue with her in front of the whole school to go to Dumbledore’s funeral and now–” He broke off with a small whimper and shut his eyes, struggling to keep his composure. “I can’t just stay in Ireland, Dean. I have to fight.”

 

“You’d probably be safer here anyway. You’re a half-blood, remember? And you’ll have all the teachers taking care of things. McGonagall’s Headmistress now, so it should be all right.”

 

Seamus opened his eyes. They were wet and red-looking, but he didn’t look as if he was going to break down. “Don’t talk as if you’re not coming back, Dean.”

 

Dean looked out of the window, at the wall, at the packed trunks, at anything to avoid the accusation in Seamus’ eyes. “I can’t come back. You know I can’t come back.”

 

“Lie!” Seamus sounded desperate. “Tell them you’re a half-blood, tell them you’re adopted–”

 

“And what do I do if they go after my family?” Dean interrupted him, looking him straight in the eye. “What do I do when they find out that my step-dad has less magic in him than a Squib?”

 

Seamus deflated. “Please don’t go, Dean,” he whispered. “I need you.”

 

Dean moved into his space and kissed him; it was a kiss that was equal parts desire, goodbyes and desperation. “I promise you, we’ll be together after this fucking war is over, but right now I have to go underground. I don’t know whether I’m Muggle-born or half-blood and until I do, the best thing is to go into hiding so that all of the people I love are safe. Do you really think I’d ever be able to forgive myself if anything happened to you on account of me?”

 

Seamus was crying in earnest now, but he didn’t even seem to notice. “Dean...”

 

“I love you, Seamus,” Dean said simply. “I’ve always loved you, I think. It just took me a little while longer to realise. You’re smarter than me, that’s why you knew before me.”

 

Seamus laughed through his tears. “I’ve been telling you that for years, Thomas. Glad to see you’ve finally fucking seen sense.”

 

Dean couldn’t help but grin as well, even though the sadness in his heart was threatening to suffocate him.

Part Six