Chapter 2

"DEAN! For God's sake, WHERE ARE YOU?" a voice shouted from the kitchen. Dean Thomas sighed, pulled his headphones off and entered the obnoxiously busy room to face his more-than-slightly stressed mother. He couldn't deny that it freaked him out a bit, having all those people in his house, talking and laughing and eating their food and celebrating and taking up every last ounce of air left. He'd felt a little suffocated ever since their door had opened for the first car full of relatives.

"WHAT DO YOU WANT?" he barked once he had entered the kitchen, trying to make himself heard above his sibling's loud voices and the hysterical laughter of his - severely drunk - aunts. Because this failed spectacularly, Dean began making his way through the various members of his family, trying to get a good view of his mum, who had somehow disappeared. Luckily enough, he spotted her quite soon; she was busy standing in front of the refrigerator, looking kind of lost.

Dean almost smiled. It was a good thing he'd grown several inches in the past two years; otherwise, he would've gotten swallowed by the crowd of people in here, trying to make more room for themselves and taking up every last nook and cranny.

"I forgot to buy milk, and we just ran out; would you do me the favour?" his mum called out, giving him a Come-on-you-were-always-the-good-boy-look once she had spotted him behind a bunch of his younger cousins. Dean sighed again, pondering about his options quickly. He could either stay here, in a house which was way too full and loud, blasting music out of his earphones loud enough to make him think his ears were going to fall off, and all of it in a desperate attempt to drown out the noise, or he could walk around the dark, snowy, blissfully lonesome streets of London to make a trip to the store.

It wasn't a hard choice, really.

"FINE," he yelled back, flashing his mum a thumbs-up in case she hadn't heard, and then turned around to get the hell out of there. The thought of getting some alone time, with nothing but the peacefully glittering snow and the icy wind that cut down to your bones to keep him company, made Dean's heartbeat quicken in anticipation. He would even have enough space to stretch out both his arms without hitting someone in the face, and it was that realisation that made him walk faster, pushing his seven-year-old sister Annie out of the way and shoving through a group of his merrily chatting uncles to go put his coat on.

"WHY IS DEAN GOING OUT MUMMY?! WHY IS HE GOING OUT WHEN I'M NOT?!" his younger sister Jazmyn screamed. Dean almost dropped the wallet he'd been stuffing into his pocket, covering his ears with his hands. His sister's screaming was the most ear-piercing sound in the whole wide world. Really, the obnoxious cries emerging from Harry's Golden Egg when he had tried to solve the riddle for the second task in the Triwizard Tournament during their fourth year were a pure symphony compared to that.

"OH, SHUT UP!!" he yelled, slamming the door shut behind him before he could get in trouble for swearing. Silence surrounded him immediately, and for the first time in days, Dean felt himself relax.

He had, as impressively proven, grown so uncomfortable, feeling so on edge at all times, that he didn't even stop to think for a second before he had screamed at his baby sister. To calm his guilty mind down, he made a mental note to get her some chocolate.

Dean let out another sigh - but this time a thankful one - and started walking down the street towards the 24/7-shop nearby.

It was really exhausting to live in a family like his. He had two older and four younger sisters, three older brothers and about a hundred cousins, who of course had all chosen the same holiday to make the obligatory once-a-year visit. And that happened to be Christmas.

Bloody hell, what even was so exciting about Christmas? Dean had never quite understood the turmoil people loved to make. To him, Christmas meant peace and quiet and tons of snow. He would've been perfectly fine if he could've just stayed in his room, paint, eat some candy and maybe, if he was feeling productive, watch a movie at night. He didn't need any company.

Well, probably Seamus could be there with me, Dean thought. He was Dean's best friend and his favourite person to be around. He just loved to spend time with Sea, even if the Irish boy happened to be extremely talkative and energetic - some would say hyper - when he was in a good mood (alas, all the time.) Dean didn't know how to describe it, but it was a different kind of energy that Seamus gave off, a kind that made Dean's heart overflow with joy and happiness whenever he looked at Sea, a kind of energy he could picture being around all day every day for the rest of his life.

And that didn't sound gay at all, Dean thought, shaking his head clear of all thoughts besides one: Yeah, Seamus would be alright.

Dean approached the shop, quickening his steps to get inside the warm place. It was empty, of course it was (Dean suspected this had less to do with Christmas Evening and more with the permanent smell of smoke, alcohol and something suspiciously sweet that stuck to every corner of the shop), but at least it was open; Dean had never seen it closed once ever since he'd lived here, which meant the shop must've been permanently opened for about ... sixteen years.

Wondering only briefly about the shop's surprisingly continuous opening times, he entered the small room and walked straight up to the shelf with the dairy products. Humming some stupid Christmas song - he wasn't exactly sure which one it was, his talents had all gone to painting rather than singing - he grabbed a random bottle of milk and some chocolate (one for Jazmyn, and one for his own nerves which were sure to be wearing thin once he had to return to that hellhole) and walked up to the cashier desk. No matter how much he wanted to stay away from his house forever - or at least until all his relatives had left -, his mum was going to kill him if he took too long.

The poor man behind the desk wore his cheap, red uniform and a tired, self-pitying smile to match.

Next to him stood an old, crackling radio, which played a Muggle song called "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas" - one of the few Dean actually managed to recognise - in very low quality. Dean pondered about enhancing the radio's frequency magically for a second, then decided it wasn't worth getting thrown out of Hogwarts.

"8, 29 £, please," the man said. He seemed very lonely. Dean paid, and in a sudden jolt of compassion he opened the chocolate bar, broke it into two halves and put one of them on the desk. The cashier gave him a thankful smile, and Dean smiled back before he left the shop, pushing one piece of chocolate into his mouth and the rest of it in his pocket, feeling a lot better because he'd most likely just made someone's evening.

He was already on his way back when he decided he might as well walk the other way around, which consisted of three short alleys and one narrow road; that would be a great opportunity to gather a tiny bit more time for himself without angering his mum too badly.

He turned on his heel and walked in the other direction, making sure to go slow, simply enjoying the silence and the pleasingly cold snow. The fresh, clean scent of it hurt when he breathed it in, and yet Dean loved little more in the world.

Dean watched the tiny snowflakes settle on the ground and on parked cars, melting when they met his skin, and allowed himself to think of his room, blissfully quiet and clean, the bed neatly made with his sketchbook waiting for him. He'd started to draw a picture of their Christmas tree just this morning, and had planned to finish it as soon as possible - maybe even tonight, if he got lucky. But if he was being realistic, the drawing would have to wait until tomorrow - some sibling or cousin or aunt or neighbour would surely demand his full attention as soon as he walked back in through the front door.

Caught up in his thoughts, Dean didn't notice the human laying on the ground until it was too late, and so he stumbled right over one of the arms of the man, landing on his hands and knees painfully.

"Fuck!" he shouted, taking a second to recover before getting up and cleaning himself up as best he could - which meant his jeans now had two dark, wet stains on the knees, and one of his palms had been scraped open. Other than that, he was fine. Thankfully, the milk bottle had remained intact as well, and save for the scratches on his hand that were now bleeding lightly, he hadn't hurt himself. With anger boiling up inside of him, he turned around to seek the cause of his fall.

It was a young man with sandy hair, wearing a soaked black jumper, laying in the snow face-down. Next to him lay a trunk and a stick, and he wasn't moving. Dean backed away. Some drunk passing out in the middle of the street was none of his concern.

He'd just taken a few steps when he realised something, and froze. He turned around, very slowly, and looked at the motionless man again.

He knew that jumper.

That was his jumper.

Examining the man more closely, Dean realised that he also knew that shaggy not-quite-blonde-but-not-brown-either-hair colour. He even knew that trunk, and he knew that the stick was not a stick, but a wand. He knew this guy, better than anyone else. This person was as far from a homeless drunk as Dean suddenly deciding to join a fishing club.

"Seamus?" he asked, his voice oddly shaky.

No reply.

Seamus lay still, too still... Dean gulped. He felt the fear rising in his heart like a black flower, blooming quickly. He could not be dead, could he?

No, Dean decided and crouched down next to his best friend. Of course he isn't dead. This is Seamus Finnigan and he is wearing my jumper. People don't die in that jumper.

"Sea?" he repeated, but again, Seamus didn't answer, remaining motionless. Sweat was beginning to form on Dean's brow, who had suddenly forgot everything he had ever learned in all his life about any sort of emergency situation.

"Come on, Sea, get up! You can't just lay around here, you need to get up.." Dean stammered, not even realising what he was saying. He just wanted Sea to talk to him, thinking that if he rambled enough, the Irish boy would just tell him to shut up. The silence he'd found so comforting moments ago terrified him now.

Dean reached out to touch Seamus, flinching as he noticed how cold the smaller boy was. So unbelievably cold.

Dean swallowed hard and then reached out once again. Don't be a coward, come on, he's just unconscious, he thought, and turned his friend around. When he saw his face, though, Dean couldn't help but wince.

His best friend looked terrible. Seamus's face was swollen and red, bruises everywhere, shadowing over his face like clouds hiding the sun on a summer day; he also had a black eye, and was that blood under his nose?

Dean swallowed again, trying hard not to freak out as he thought of how Seamus might have received all these injuries. What had been done to him? And, more importantly, what kind of person did something like this? 

A shiver went through Dean's body, both from the cold and the terrible images his mind was coming up with, and in lack of knowledge, he bent down, pressing his ear against Seamus's lips until he could feel the in- and exhaled air caress his earlobe. He was breathing, barely, but still. He was breathing. He was alive.

Dean let out a small, relieved laugh before he thought of the actual problem: How in the world was he going to take Seamus home? Because they clearly couldn't stay here.

Dean's mind raced, coming up with the most possible and impossible solutions. At first, he thought of using Wingardium Leviosa, but ditched the idea quickly when he noticed all the houses around. The chance of being seen by a muggle looking out of their window was way too big.

Neither could he just grab Seamus's ankle and drag him all the way back; his friend was physically damaged enough already and Dean doubted he'd be grateful for a journey like that if he woke up the next day. When, Dean corrected himself quickly, when he woke up. There was no way he was going to let Seamus die, so he wouldn't even allow the slightest thought of it, fearing it might come true if he hoped for it not to.

Finally, Dean realised there was only one way left.

He sighed, got up, wiped the snow off his knees (again), put Seamus's wand in his pocket and then lifted the smaller boy up quickly. He draped Sea across his shoulders carefully, nearly smiling at how small he was, then somehow managed to take his trunk in one hand, using the other to steady his friend, and started walking home as quickly as possible.

***

A/N: Excuse me for any grammatical errors or typos you might find. I was typing this one-handed while eating dinner.