Title: Knife (1/1)
Fandom/Original: Harry Potter
Pairing: Seamus / Dean
Rating: R (for language)
Comments: Nothing hurts more than betrayal.
Nothing hurt like betrayal did.
It was childish, really. Something easily shrugged off by anybody else- why then couldn't he let it go? Whey must he cling to it like a babe to the breast? It wasn't a big deal. He was a fool for allowing himself the angst of affection.
Dean perched on the window bench of his dorm room, arms around his knees, hugging them to his chest, chin on the bony joints. His serene gaze scanned the air, the forest, the lush green rolls of hill and glade below. Further off the mountains loomed, a barriar sheilding Hogwarts from the outside world, from the prying eyes of muggles. His heart ached to go there, over those craggy peaks, through the thick clouds that were rumbling with oncoming rain, and away from everything here that had hurt him.
Away from Seamus' betrayal.
He should have known, that first time they had sex, when Seamus rolled off him, still breathing as if without breath, and padded across the room towards his chest. The irish boy had pulled out a letter, then, and written something down; stared at it for a while, then crammed it back into the mahogany drawers. He should have known something was wrong, horribly wrong; but he was too busy feeling the aftermath of pleasure wash over his body, like waves with foamy white lace in decorum of his dark skin, the wet pulsing of the breakers on the shore of his stomach. But Seamus- Seamus was a thinker. Always thinking, thinking thinking thinking. He may appear, in everyday conversation, to be carefree, putting one foot ahead of the other, enjoying minutes and not expecting years- but nothing slipped by him without careful consideration. Perhaps that's why he left Dean for a girl. A pretty little Ravenclaw with breasts like green apples and lips that could envelope you in fire.
What must have hurt the most about it was that they'd been friends, the best of friends; could have given the trio a run for their money. Seamus had never told Dean he loved him, but had said it with his fingernails down a smooth expanse of skin, his whispers on a dark nipple, his moans, mixed with chaste kisses, on the elegant curve of spine, of lower back. Dean had believed it all, had eaten it up like candy, such sweet candy.
What he should have realized, before it even began, the nights of casting silencing spells- was that Seamus was a boy. Sure, Dean was too, but with boys sex was different- it hardly ever held meaning, or a promise to last forever. And Seamus- well, Seamus was hardly like his ancestors, depsite the thick accent- those fiery Irish who when they fell in love, it was the kind of love that happened instantly, that gripped your heart with horrible steel claws, that threw you bodily into a bliss that promised to last forever. It was the kind of love that made every waking moment Heaven on Earth, every minute spent apart an unrivaled longing; but it was also the kind of love that could break a man- should your sweetheart dissipear, it was a love that could rip your heart in two, cleave you indefinitely, for as long as you drew breath. It could shatter your world.
Perhaps Dean should have been born Irish.
It was like this, every moment Seamus was gone, off with that girl, fucking her in the bed, against the wall, on the grass, atop a desk, with the shower water dousing their moving bodies- every moment Dean knew Seamus was with her, he ached as if dying. He should have known; oh, how he should have known. Seamus was a wild boy, he wanted it all. He wanted a taste of everyone, everything. He would never put down roots, he would never want that fairy tale love that Dean once imagined he had; he was like a butterfly on the breeze, flitting anywhere he fancied, never still.
Knowing this, knowing it all along but never accepting it, Dean should have seen the betrayal coming. Hell, in his lover's eyes, it was probably just a fling, a tryst, a romp in the sheets between buddies. Nothing more. But for the black boy it was like a stab in the back, the knife twisting each moment Seamus was away, in a Slytherin dorm somewhere, a Hufflepuff dorm, a Ravenclaw dorm.
The clouds were finally at Hogwarts. Rain began to fall, softly at first, then torrential as the minutes ticked by. Dean hugged his knees tighter to him, and lifted one hand to the glass, pressing his slim fingers there as if they could slip through walls, out towards where the rain was sluicing down the panes, inviting a mist to rise and cloud the Quidditch goals. He wanted so badly to pass through, to be doused in the water as it fell, to fall himself ever downwards, hit the ground and go through, hurtle past the rock layers, bypass the core, emerge from the other side of the planet, rebirthed and dirty and wise. He hated being a fool; he'd fallen in love.