Confessions and Epiphanies of a Gay, Black Wizard

[gretagarbled.livejournal.com]

Title: Confessions and Epiphanies of a Gay, Black Wizard.
Author: authoress_girl
Part: 4/6
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 always attributed his new-found skill of procrastinating to Seamus. To be fair, N.E.W.Ts were still about two years away (a year and a half, if he was being honest with himself), so it wasn’t as if he was wasting time, he was just... shifting his priorities a bit. He was sitting on his bed with the curtains drawn and his Transfiguration essay lying abandoned on his pillow. Deep in thought, he shifted yet another picture of Seamus into a different pile. He’d actually been looking for another piece of parchment when it struck him that his art pieces could do with a touch of organisation, which is why he could now be found staring at drawings and paintings and sketches, sorted into piles that probably had no real distinction to the outside observer; to be completely honest, even Dean wasn’t sure how his system worked.

 

“Dean!” A sandy head popped through his curtains without warning, but Dean was unperturbed; being best friends with Seamus tended to increase one’s tolerance for loud noises and explosions. “Whatcha doing?”

 

“Organising some art stuff. What are you doing?”

 

Seamus grinned evilly. “I came up here to bother you.”

 

Dean rolled his eyes and continued with his sorting. With the utmost care, Seamus sat on Dean’s bed without touching any of his pieces at all. It was only when Dean looked up properly that he noticed Seamus wasn’t wearing a shirt. He raised a curious eyebrow.

 

“Seamus...?”

 

He shrugged one-shouldered. “I’m too hot.”

 

“Seamus, it’s December!”

 

“Exactly. All the fires are blazing and the house-elves have put Warming Charms on all the furniture. It’s sweltering!” Seamus fanned himself with a hand. Dean gave him a serious look. Seamus walked around naked all the time, but Dean always averted his eyes because, you know, he was naked. But Seamus had his trousers on this time, so Dean was free to look at the newly hardened planes of Seamus’ body, the shoulders that had broadened out ever so slightly, the longer arms, the faint freckles that always became more pronounced whenever the summer months rolled around...

 

“Dean?” Seamus whispered.

 

“Don’t move,” Dean replied just as quietly, and scrabbled around for the nearest parchment – his Transfiguration essay – and his pencils. This still, subdued Seamus deserved the sultriness and the shadows of pencils. For an age, there was no sound but their breathing and the hushed movement of Dean’s pencils over the parchment. When he was done, he handed the drawing to Seamus without a word. Seamus stared at it silently for the longest time. When he looked up, his eyes were like jewelled planets in his face and his lips were parted. His tongue darted out to wet them unconsciously, the saliva there glistening under the dim light filtering in through the maroon curtains. Before Dean became aware of what he was doing, he had moved across the bed, sweeping his art out of the way with an expansive gesture. He cupped Seamus’ face tenderly and closed his eyes at the onslaught of Seamus’ smell, that perfect, innocent smell that never changed, however much Seamus did.

 

Dean...” Seamus breathed onto his skin. Dean pressed his mouth to Seamus’, and he was undone. It was the chastest kiss Dean had ever had, yet with it, everything seemed to click into place; Seamus was his world, Seamus was all he had ever and would ever want or need. They weren’t even moving and their noses were squashed, but it was perfection. But then Seamus’ mouth bloomed like a flower over his and conscious thought flicked off like a light-bulb, and his only reference points came back to Seamus: the warmth of his cheeks under Dean’s palms, the taste of his mouth, the butterfly-soft flutter of his lashes...

 

They moved back from each other at the same moment, chests heaving.

 

“Dean.” Seamus’ voice was quiet but firm, and Dean’s name rolled off his lips like something holy.

 

“Seamus...” Dean shook his head and moved back so that there was more space between them. “I... I can’t.”

 

Seamus looked older than Dean had ever seen him. He nodded and looked away. There was an eternity of silence, and then Seamus moved off the bed like an old man. Before he disappeared completely, he stopped and turned to Dean with a scorching, intense expression and Dean almost gasped; it was rare to see Seamus so serious.

 

“Dean?”

 

He nodded mutely.

 

“I’ll wait. However long it takes.” With that, he disappeared, and Dean was left with nothing but his bruised lips and his beating heart to show that... whatever that was had even happened.

 

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

 

“Stop staring at them, Dean.” Neville chuckled into his Butterbeer, snapping Dean out of his reverie.

 

“What?”

 

“You’re staring at Zabini like an angry Hippogriff. I mean, I know he’s a Slytherin, but he hasn’t done anything too bad.”

 

“Yet.” Dean scowled, throwing another dark glance to where his best friend and that hideous Slytherin git were sitting. He knew he was being uncharitable; after all, Dean could see better than anyone the relentless symmetry of his face, the sweeping elegance of his high, knife-sharp cheekbones and his stupid, girly, pouty mouth. But he was a Slytherin and he spent time with Malfoy out of choice and on top of all this, he’d had the audacity to ask Seamus, his best friend, out to Hogsmeade, so Dean felt he had every right to sit in a corner brooding like an irritating older brother. “He’s a Slytherin, and you can’t trust Slytherins. He might be fishing for secrets about Harry, so that he doesn’t win the Triwizard Tournament.”

 

Neville smiled again and looked at him speculatively over the top of his glass. “Why are you so bothered, anyway? I know Seamus is your best friend, but he can take care of himself rather well, from what I’ve seen.”

 

Dean shrugged. “I’ve just got a bad feeling about him. You know?”

 

Neville was doing that weird stare again, a look that was not dissimilar to the one Dumbledore gave him on the incredibly rare occasions he’d had reason to be face to face with the man. It made him look a lot older and a lot wiser.

 

“It’s not that I don’t believe you,” he started slowly. “But maybe you should think closely about why you have a bad feeling about this.”

 

Dean stared at him for a split second and then laughed softly. “Yes, Yoda,” he said, and then laughed again when Neville looked completely lost.

 

                                                            *                                  *                                  *

 

When Seamus crawled into Dean’s bed that night, for the first time ever, he considered saying no, considered telling him to sod off and get back to his own four-poster, but Seamus was already wrapped around him by the time the idea occurred to him, and Dean could almost feel the down-turned corners of his mouth poking his skin. They lay silently for a long time.

 

Dean?” Seamus whispered into the darkness; he never had been very good with silences.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“You’re not still angry with me, are you?”

 

“I wasn’t angry with you to begin with.”

 

“Liar,” Seamus retorted.

 

Dean sighed. Sometimes it annoyed him that Seamus could see right to the bones of him, but at other times (like right now, for instance), it saved a lot of beating around the bush.

 

“It’s not all you, Seamus.”

 

“But you’re angry with me?” Seamus pushed.

 

Dean sighed again. “A little,” he conceded.

 

There was a silence as Seamus considered. “Is it the... is it the gay thing?”

 

Dean gathered his arms around Seamus, hating that his best and closest friend thought, even for a second, that he was angry at him for something that was not only completely beyond his control, but was as natural as breathing.

 

“Seamus, it could never be that. I told before, I don’t care about you being gay. It’s who you’ve picked that I have a problem with.”

 

“I didn’t pick him.”

 

Dean looked down at Seamus and waited for an answer; Seamus looked up at him with wide eyes and a tense, worried mouth.

 

“It’s true,” he said in a forceful whisper. “I didn’t pick him, he picked me. And yeah, he might be a Slytherin and yeah, he counts Malfoy as a friend, but Dean...” Seamus looked as if he was about to either cry or hex something into flames. “He likes me. He likes me. Can you give me the names of anyone else who feels that way about me?”

 

Dean was silent.

 

“I mean, yeah, I’m out in Gryffindor Tower, but this place is safe. It’s home. Yeah, I wear nail varnish and flirt too heavily with the girls and yeah, I’m sure that people in other Houses know, but I’m scared. I’m scared to say it out loud. And do you know how feckin’ hard it is to work out whether someone’s gay or not? You ask a girl out, the worst she can do is say no. She won’t want to beat the shit out of you for thinking that you fancied her.” Dean could feel Seamus’ hands curl into hard fists between their chests as he continued talking. “This is easy, Dean. I know that he likes me and that he’s willing to hold my hand and kiss me. Who else is going to do that for me?”

 

“I’m sorry, Seamus... I didn’t... I didn’t know.”

 

Seamus shrugged. “How could you?”

 

“You should have told me.”

 

“Telling you wouldn’t have changed anything.”

 

“I could have helped you. You wouldn’t have been so alone. And besides, you deserve so much more than the easy option.”

 

Seamus lifted his head from Dean’s shoulder and looked at him in the eye for an infinite second. “Thanks, Dean, but the easy option is kind of the only option for me right now. Probably forever, actually.” He put his back and down and snuggled into Dean’s body. Dean soon heard his breath taper off into a deep, even rhythm, leaving him alone with his thoughts and a confused, upset feeling that he didn’t like in the slightest.

 

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

 

“Seamus?”

 

His best friend’s doppelganger (Dean still hadn’t ruled out Polyjuice Potion) smiled brilliantly and launched himself onto Dean, who had no choice but to catch him if he didn’t want to fall on his arse.

 

“Who else, you eejit?” This new Seamus grinned up at him and punched him none too gently on the arm. Dean noticed that Seamus now didn’t have to look up as far as he used to.

 

“Well, you look... different.”

 

“Of course I do, you twit. It’s been five weeks since you came over to mine. You haven’t got the market covered on growing like a mutant Mandrake root, you know.”

 

Dean made a tutting noise with his teeth and shoved Seamus’ shoulder. “Let’s go find a compartment before they all fill up.”

 

Even the distractions of Exploding Snap, their traditional pre-Feast Extravaganza and Neville checking in to see them with an odd, unpleasantly pulsating plant in tow and a knowing glint in his eyes couldn’t stop Dean staring. Seamus seemed to glow. He was so confident, it seemed to leak through his skin. Not that he hadn’t been before, mind you, but Dean knew (and suspected he was the only one who did) that most of it had been bravado. This new Seamus was new and... it felt weird to say it, but he was beautiful. He was reminded of all those Greco-Roman sculptures of young men he’d seen in Tate Britain: tall, young and casually perfect. There was a new, greener (or it was bluer?) sparkle in his eyes, and his new, floppy fringe emphasised a bone structure that must have been lying in wait for this exact moment. His normally just visible lashes were darkened with something that made his eyes look debauched in a delicious way Dean couldn’t put his finger on; he looked like some kind of libertine, the beautiful kind who was probably the inspiration for the eponymous hero of The Picture of Dorian Gray. When he reached out for yet another Chocolate Frog, Dean saw that sparkly-black varnish coated his elegantly-shaped fingernails.

 

“Dean?”

 

“Mmm?”

 

Seamus grinned widely, his teeth stained brown. “You all right?”

 

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean smiled back, hoping that Seamus hadn’t noticed him staring. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

 

“Good.” Seamus nodded and sucked on a Liquorice Wand absentmindedly. Outside the carriage door, Dean saw Zacharias Smith actually walk backwards to take another look at Seamus molesting his sweets. He knew that what made the sight so arresting – apart from The New and Improved Seamus Finnigan with Extra Glow – was that Seamus had no idea what he looked like. Dean scowled.

 

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

 

It had been a week since Seamus had kissed him, and Dean still felt as if he’d been punched in the gut. He hadn’t even spoken to the boy. It wasn’t that they were avoiding each other per se, they just weren’t speaking to each other very much. Or sitting next to each other in classes. Or taking meals with each other. Dean was sure that the other Gryffindors had noticed, because he kept getting sidelong glances from his housemates, and whenever Hermione looked at him, she got that tiny crease between her brows that meant she was either trying to work something out or was worried. Or both. Seamus, however, didn’t seem to have changed at all, not on the surface anyway; he still flirted heavily with the girls and made the straight boys nervous, but Dean could see the sluggishness beneath his movements and the missing sparkle in his eyes.

 

Dean looked at him across the room during Defence Against the Dark Arts, trying hard not to catch Snape’s attention. He wasn’t even fidgeting. It was unnerving. He was jolted out of his reveries by a sharp paper ball hitting his nape. He turned around to look at whoever had thrown it and found himself facing Malfoy and his sniggering cronies.

 

“You shirt-lifters had a lovers’ tiff?” Malfoy said, the malice in his eyes making them shine like shards of ice. “Was he angry because you wouldn’t let him top?” His Slytherin friends fell about laughing. Dean looked straight at him and wondered how Harry hadn’t killed him out of irritation already.

 

“You must be running out of ideas if you’re borrowing prejudice from the Muggle world,” he said neutrally, and Malfoy’s face fell. Dean fought a satisfied smirk and leaned over Malfoy’s desk, ignoring Snape’s angry “Thomas...” and knowing he’d pay for it later. “And anyway,” he whispered with lethal intent. “Why does a straight boy like you know anything about topping?”

 

He’d obviously hit home, because Malfoy’s face flushed pink and he blinked. Dean turned around, only to realise that he’d jumped out of the frying pan into the fire: Snape was leaning over his desk, an ugly snarl on his face.

 

“Ten points from Gryffindor,” he said in a silky voice that belied the danger it indicated. “Consider yourself lucky that your Head of House stands in my way when I wish to give you harsher punishments. Students do not ignore me in my lesson when I am talking to them.” He turned around, his cape flowing behind him in the usual bat-like way, and resumed teaching. Dean looked over at Seamus out of pure habit and was met with two greeny-blue eyes glinting back at him.

 

                                                            *                                  *                                  *

 

He sat in his four-poster with the curtains drawn, knowing instinctively that Seamus would come and find him here. Sure enough, forty-five minutes into his attempt at an essay on Inter-Species Transfiguration, Seamus crawled into his bed without any preamble and sat before him cross-legged. Dean set aside his work and nervously put his fingers together in a steeple.

 

“Seamus...” he began, but Seamus put up a hand to stop him.

 

“Dean, I like you,” he said baldly. “I’ve hidden it for years, because I thought you were straight, but when you kissed me the other day...” Seamus shook his head. “That wasn’t the kiss of a straight man and frankly, I’m confused. You kissed me and then avoided me completely.”

 

Dean scowled. “I did not kiss you. You kissed me.”

 

To his surprise, Seamus laughed. “Dean, I think I’d remember the minor details of the first kiss with the man I’ve loved for the past three years.”

 

Dean stared. “That long?”

 

Seamus nodded, half-smiling.

 

“But what about you and Zabini, then?”

 

Seamus winced. “He was a... distraction. He was perfect, actually. But he’s not you.” At this point, Seamus sat up straight and took a deep breath. “I’ve wasted enough time. There’s a war coming, Dean. I know it sounds stupid and melodramatic, but I don’t want... I don’t want to have to live with the regret of never telling that I... that I love you.” Seamus blushed so hard that he was on course to rival Ron. “I love you.”

 

This time, Dean was aware of every move he made. This time, he couldn’t blame artistic stupor, or the fact that Seamus’ lips were irresistible or a moment of madness. He knew he was kissing Seamus. He wanted to kiss Seamus. This was why he stared at Seamus, why the faint freckles smattered across his skin were so interesting, why he didn’t try too hard to look away whenever Seamus got the urge to walk around starkers. Seamus’ hand slid into his shirt and he gasped.

 

“Seamus...” Dean started breathlessly, and then kissed Seamus as if his mouth had some kind of gravitational pull he couldn’t fight. When Seamus’ hardness pressed into his, it took everything he had not to start rutting against Seamus’ crotch, because God only knew that would happen if he allowed that. “Seamus, I have a girlfriend. Ginny,” he added, as if reminding himself.

 

Seamus pressed his mouth against Dean’s so, so gently, making his lips tingle. “Do you want to kiss her as much as you want to kiss me right now?” he asked calmly.

 

“You know the answer to that, Seamus.”

 

He nodded and stroked Dean’s face. “I do. I just wanted to hear it.”

 

Dean raised an eyebrow. “You’ll always become before any girl, Seamus. Always.”

 

“Really? Even before Ginny?”

 

Dean hesitated. He knew he couldn’t give an honest answer to that question, not now. He tried not to notice the bitter tang of sadness that coated Seamus’ tongue when Dean kissed him again.

Part Five