A/N: 'Allo, my lovelies! So, apparently I have been nominated as Best Gryffindor Author in the Couture Awards. I am beyond flattered, and would like to say a very big thank you to my nominator, Laura. And what better way to say it than with some lovely Gryffindor boys?

(PS. As an Irish person, I'm allowed to be as stereotypical as I like when it comes to Seamus and there's nothing you can do about it.)

(PPS. If you want to vote for me - and I will love you if you do - you can do so in the poll on Couture Girl's page. Thank you!)

(PPPS. I am behind on review replies/requests. I know this; I am sorry and I love you. Will catch up/write/publish a lot over the next week. Promise, guys. Promise.)


Prompt: 29. Whisper

Pairing: Dean Thomas/Seamus Finnigan


It's the middle of the war and you're caught in your own private battle when the whispers come in a foreign tongue.

They are coming for you, the Snatchers, and your heart hammers, your lips are cracked and dry and, dear Merlin, the wind carries those whispers so gently across your skin, as if they are carried on his very breath.

You hide between tall trees and dark bark, praying to gods you don't believe in and clutching your wand tightly between your fingers, and all you can hear, all you can think of, is the echo of his voice and words you didn't understand.

But you do now, don't you?

He was trying to tell you, you fool, he was trying to tell you but he couldn't and so he told you the only way he could. You know that now.

Táim i ngrá leat, he had whispered, and how had you responded? A laugh, a nod, a question - it doesn't matter. When he speaks Irish, he never translates for you. Ever. You've come to understand things like What time is it? and Where is my tie? but that's the extent of your Irish. You never were one for languages.

But this one, these words...

You think of him now, his blue, blue eyes and his crooked smile, the freckles on the backs of his hands and how he is always he first out of bed. You think of his pale skin and his sloppy handwriting and his bloody Irish pride. You think of his floppy fringe, his cackling laugh, his whispers after the lights have gone out and you miss him so bloody much.

Why didn't you understand? How could you have missed it?

But as the words come back to you now, echoing in the rustle of the trees, you know exactly what they mean. You don't know how you know, and you'd never be able to spell them or write them down but you feel them, burning your heart in the way only his words could; I love you.

And you try to picture his face and hope that he knows that you love him too.

Only after that do you hope that you make it out alive.

(The whispers follow you all the way out and only really stop when you are safe.

And, even then, you think you can hear something in the wind.

Something.)