This was written for OnTheSideOfTheAngels' "My Future Self Competition" over at HPFC. I got Seamus/Dean as a pairing, with Seamus as the main character.

Dissclaimer: I own nothing. At all. Stop rubbing it in. Thank you.

Dear Twenty-Year-Old Me,

Yes, I'm doing this incredibly girly-girlish thing that involves writing a letter to your future self in the hope that when you reread it, you laugh at how silly you were back when you wrote it and relish in the knowledge that everything is so much better now. It honestly shouldn't come as a surprise that I'm doing such an unmanly thing, with me being a poof and all. Or well, I am if being desperately in love with your very male best friend counts as being gay. Which it does, I guess.

Tell me, is he alive? Did you see him back? Is he unharmed, complete, happy? Did you tell him? Tell him you love him, want him, need him? Does he – maybe, possibly, very unlikely but who knows, hope makes live, right? – love you back? And if he doesn't (he doesn't, stop telling yourself nonsense, he's straight, he dated Ginny Weasley, remember? I know you do, you don't forget that kind of jealousy and pain easily), are you still friends? Are you over him yet or are you still pining hopelessly? Is he disgusted with you? I bet he isn't. Loyal, unprejudiced Dean. He probably supported you through it all, didn't he?

But above all: does he live? Will I ever see him again? Merlin, I'm so scared! I don't know where he is, I haven't heard from him for months! I guess (I hope, I hope, I don't want to think of the alternative) he's hiding out somewhere, being clever, escaping the Snatchers, maybe helping Harry. I don't want to believe he might be dead. He's always been so good at everything he tried (and always better than me. How could I ever deserve him?). He deserves to live. He deserves everything life has to give him. Oh please, let him be alive!

I miss him. Miss him so much. Miss him when I accidentally set stuff on fire and he's not there to quench it with a quick Aguamenti, rolling his eyes at me ('Seriously, Seamus, are you a pyromaniac or what?").

Miss him every time I look at his drawings he left in the drawer next to his – now empty – four-poster. There is his self-portrait, the one he drew that time Lavender challenged him to draw something without a model. There are a few of me, too. Me on a broomstick, me studying, me passed out on the dormitory floor after a Firewhiskey-fueled party. I miss him drawing me, his utter stillness except for the scribbling of the quill on the parchment, his concentration as his eyes keep scanning over my face, my body, and it's so easy to tell myself he's watching for other reasons than merely artistic exercise. There is my favourite drawing too: one of the two of us, sitting in one of the couches of the Common Room, me, half-asleep, with my head resting on his shoulder and the gentle glow of the fire shining in our eyes. (I will deny until my death I'm sleeping with this under my pillow.)

Miss him during the DA reunions when we need to partner up and my eyes automatically flicker to where he should have been standing, but only find someone else (Neville, Ginny, Michael, or anyone else, but not him, not my Dean) in his place. The only thing that gets me through this is the hope that maybe, one day, he'll come back and I won't have to miss him anymore.

Please tell him he came back. Please tell me he's alive. Please tell me I won't have to miss him anymore.

Please tell me he loves me.


Seventeen-Year-Old You

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