by Argenteus Draco
Seamus had never found anything particularly attractive about scarring. He did, however, have three of which he was quite proud.
The first was the souvenir of a minor burn he'd earned in his first year. If he remembered correctly – and he was reasonably sure he did, because Dean was very fond of telling this particular story – he'd been practicing the Alohamora charm when his wand had emitted an impressive shower of sparks. This led to a lot of oohs and aahs from his classmates, which made him feel quite accomplished until he realized that his sleeve was on fire. That was when he'd started screaming, and then all the girls were screaming, and all the boys except Neville laughed. By the time one of the fourth years had come to his aide with a bucket of water, the damage had been done.
He didn't mind so much though. It was small, just an inch and a half line behind his thumb, and barely noticeable if you weren't looking for it. What's more, it reminded him of a point in his life when his biggest worry had been test grades and he could still laugh over a little mistake. Not at all like now, when even a slight mistake might get them all killed.
He felt bad for the handful of first years who had come this year. They were only eleven, and they were all bound to make mistakes.
His latest screw-up, a misfire in Defense Against the Dark Arts, had earned him the Cruciatus Curse. He was in the middle of the Great Hall, an example to all the other half-bloods about what would happen to them if they could not keep up with the Pure-blooded students. While he was on the ground, he must have hit his head against a corner or a stair, because everything he remembered after that he remembered seeing through a curtain of blood. It was only a shallow cut over his eye, but the Carrows had forbidden him from going to Madam Pomprey, and he'd been forced to heal it himself.
That evening had been the first time he'd missed Hermione. She would have been able to close the wound far neater than he had.
His only consolation was that he wasn't the only one with scars. Parvati had a collection over her hand where her fingers had been broken. Neville had a long one that ran along his jaw line to his chin. Even Professor McGonagall had one, though no one was quite sure if it was from this war or her first.
Everyone seemed to think of their scars as a badge of honor, some sort of physical representation of their valor. Except Seamus. To Seamus, they were nothing but memories. He looked down at his hand, and he remembered a past of peace and laughter that he missed terribly. He saw his face reflected in the mirror, and he remembered the reality he now lived in. and his third scar – the one that wasn't a physical scar at all, but the gaping hole that had been left by the friends he'd lost – that was a constant reminder of why they were still fighting.
He thought of them, and he remembered the future they were attempting to secure. I may not have been as pure as the past, or as carefree, and there would certainly be faces missing from the places they should have been, but it had to be better than the present.
He would be there, in the thick of the battle, and he would be able to think of his scars and remember tomorrow.