A/N: This is just a quick oneshot I did after my pre-Deathly Hallows re-read of the series. Writing about characters has always been the easiest way for me to understand them. It can be viewed as friendship or pre-slash. Personally, I prefer pre-slash. :) After all, wasn't it JKR herself who said that "British boys don't hug"? British lovers, on the other hand...

Seamus Finnegan woke up, a scant hour or two after he'd fallen asleep, with no idea why. He lay very still for a moment, muscles tensed, and listened for the creak of a board or a heavy yawn that would indicate it was just his parents, waking up to use the bathroom or have a cup of his mum's soothing lavender tea. Hearing nothing, he settled back into his pillow, until the faint sound of breath made him twitch for his wand. Then—

"Seamus."

It was that whisper, he was positive, that had woken him up, and the voice was familiar enough that he relaxed, although his groggy senses couldn't immediately place it.

"Whozzair?" he slurred. He yawned and reached for his wand, casually, not expecting an attack but not stupid enough to be unprepared. The reed wand was familiar in his hand, and he could have sworn it was humming excitedly. He always felt his wand was excited—it liked to be out doing things, and Seamus was all too happy to oblige.

"It's me. Dean. Your door let me in."

Seamus stretched, chuckling.

"Mam did that when I was at school. Neat, innit? Recognizes people we want to let in, keeps out people we don't, and it sees through potions and spells and things too."

He flicked his wand, intending to brighten the room a bit by turning on a lamp, but as usual he overdid it, and winced at the resulting brightness. Dean was standing beside the bed with his rucksack, looking anxious. His clothes were rumpled, like he'd slept in them.

"Oi," Seamus said, surprised. "How'd you get here? Don't tell me you managed to Apparate all the way from London."

This last was said with a grin—Dean had had to take his test twice, and Seamus would never, ever let him live it down.

"Oh, it's harder for tall people," Dean snapped. "Ron Weasley had to retake it, too! Anyway, I did all right. I took the Knight Bus to the coast, then just Apparated by bits each time. I think I left an eyebrow in Bandon, but I grew it back."

Something about that struck Seamus as odd. He moved over and gestured for Dean to sit down, which he did gratefully. He settled at the foot of the bed like a crane, tall and still but unfailingly awkward, and Seamus leaned against the headboard, looking at him curiously.

"Hang on—the Knight Bus comes to Waterford and Cork. Why didn't you just get off there, spare your poor eyebrow?"

"I'm… Seamus, I'm running away."

There was a pause. Seamus stared at his best friend blankly; Dean was looking everywhere but at him, looking anguished, frustrated, and absurdly calm all at once. Oh, Seamus thought. This is real. When he didn't respond, Dean looked at him—meeting his eyes for the first time that night—and Seamus blurted out, "You can't."

"I have to. The Muggle-born Regis—"

"There's no way you're a bloody Muggle-born! I've told you a thousand times, only one kid in five can't be Muggle-born, it runs in families so it's all or none. Your dad had to be a wizard."

There was a flaw in his logic, somewhere, but Seamus wasn't too keen on trying to identify it. Anger was rising in Dean's face, and his voice was cold and belligerent when he spoke.

"Well that's another damn thing I've got to thank him for, because I've got no proof! If I stay, they'll only send me to Azkaban or take away my wand, and I can't let that happen."

"But—"

He didn't have anything to say. He had never dreamed of making this argument. Seamus had read about the Muggle-born Registration Committee, of course. He had started reading the Prophet after that embarrassing Defense Against the Dark Arts class (fake Inferi, really?), and his mother had never cancelled their subscription, although it was now supplemented with a subscription to the Quibbler as well. The former kept them updated on the Ministry's new, distinctly Voldemort-y policies, while the latter reported how the policies were being resisted. The Quibbler had immediately recommended that Muggle-borns should go into hiding, so this shouldn't have come as a surprise.

At the same time, though, he had never considered that Dean would be one of those misplaced wizards. Dean, who had sat next to him in every single class since February of their first year, who slept right next to him in their dorm, who debated the value of football compared to Quidditch every game. And that was just at Hogwarts—just at school, which had never really mattered that much anyway. This—running away—encompassed so much more. They had spent the whole summer holiday together before fourth year, camping, talking excitedly about the World Cup until his mum had jinxed their lips shut, and the Christmas holiday before that, when Seamus had actually been invited to Dean's Muggle flat in London, where he got into a passionate argument with the younger Thomas girls about whether Father Christmas Apparated around the world or used flying reindeer, of all ridiculous things.

The idea that Dean would have to give all that up, to subject himself to months of fear and hiding and loneliness… it would be laughable if it wasn't so terrifyingly possible.

"But what about your family?" he asked. He knew he was grasping at straws—Dean wouldn't have set a foot outside his door if his family wasn't safe—but his mind was stuck on little Arielle, whose wide, watery eyes had persuaded him to hastily admit that reindeer might be able to visit every house in the world, if the proper charms were applied.

"That's partly why I'm here. I Floo'd Hermione Granger a week or two ago; she gave me some enchantments to keep them safe. But my parents are still going to worry—I told them everything—so I was hoping you could… I don't know. Just look out for them, if you can."

Dean always avoided mixing his two worlds. Seamus, nervous about this new responsibility, nodded, his throat tight.

"I reckon I can visit during the holidays," he said slowly. "And—how's this—me dad gets a lot of Muggle mail. If your mam sent him letters, my mam can send them on to me at Hogwarts without anyone knowing, and I can send them back. No one will bother checking the Muggle post. She'll have to write in code, though, 'cause I bet they'll search all the owls…"

He trailed off. Dean had relaxed—in fact, he was practically beaming at him.

"That's excellent, Seamus, you have no idea. Mum tried to hide it, but she was so worried. I think Dad'll be able to calm her, but I thought I'd pop by just in case."

"And here I thought it was just to say good-bye to your best mate," Seamus joked. His smile was wavery, and Dean's gaze and smile fell. He picked listlessly at the bedspread.

"I don't want to go," he finally blurted out, almost desperately, "but I've got to. If I stay, and try to register, they could use my family against me—use you—I'll bet you anything they'd be thrilled to torture a Mudblood who's spent six years in the same dorm as Harry Potter. Now there's no proof anyone knows where I am, so I thought it would make everybody else safer… that's why I Apparated here, you know," he said. He collected himself a bit, and shot Seamus a wry grin. "I was going to get off the bus at Dublin, sneak down here on the sly, but I figured that wouldn't do anything. I know exactly one bloke in the whole of Ireland, so being seen anywhere would be as bad as being seen on your doorstep."

"Thanks, mate, I appreciate it."

Remarkably, the next few minutes slid by in weak jokes and sincere (if not easy) laughter. Then Dean spotted the clock and said, regretfully, that he'd better go. Seamus' heart gave a very unpleasant thump; it was like a bolt of lightning had struck him, just there, the force of it and the shock radiating from one point. Thinking quickly, he stood up and demanded to see what was in Dean's rucksack. After all, between the two of them, Seamus had more experience camping.

To his disappointment, Dean was perfectly prepared. In fact, being the more sensible one, he had even packed things Seamus wouldn't have thought of, like Edible Plants of Britain and Ireland, and mouthwash. The only thing Seamus was able to offer was the family tent, which was stuffed in the back of his wardrobe.

"Er—we haven't been camping lately, so it's still covered in shamrocks," he said apologetically, handing it over. "But it's much better than a Muggle tent. It packs up smaller, it has more room inside, it's fireproof, and it adjusts itself to the climate—you know, warm in the winter and all that. And the bunk beds are still in there. You can have the top one, this time."

"Thanks," Dean said gratefully. "I wasn't too chuffed about the whole sleeping on the ground thing, to be honest. This sleeping bag was really cheap, so I don't think it's very comfortable."

Seamus was distracted, looking over everything in his room. His eyes alighted on the bookshelf.

"Take this too," he said abruptly, shoving Miss Michaela Melley's Magical Murders of Ireland into Dean's hands. "She's brilliant, and this is the complete set of her books. The best part is the charm at the back—when you want to reread them, just use it and you'll forget who the murderer is. I expect you'll get bored a lot, so…"

"Thanks," Dean repeated, although he seemed more bemused than grateful. They were drifting dangerously close to the door now.

"And this!" Seamus declared wildly.

He brandished his wand, and his Kenmare Kestrels poster detached itself from the wall. With another flick, it folded itself into a neat little parcel, which he held out. Dean didn't even pretend to look grateful this time.

"Seamus," he said, exasperated. "What the hell am I going to do with a bloody Kestrels poster?"

"First of all, the Kestrels put forth the whole offensive side of the team that won the last World Cup, if you haven't forgotten, and they're set to do it again, so it's much better to have a Kestrels poster than, say, a Cannons poster. Secondly…"

His stern tone wasn't working. Dean's face softened in understanding. He put his new supplies in his rucksack (the poster carefully in the front pocket) and pulled Seamus into a fierce, tight hug.

"Thanks," he said again in a hoarse voice.

"Stop thanking me," Seamus ordered, muffled slightly by his friend's shoulder. "I just can't wait to take your spot on the Quidditch team."

Dean laughed weakly.

"I'll write you," he promised. "Just to let you know I'm okay. After a month or so, if I can find an owl—"

"Don't," Seamus said with some difficulty. "That's the stupid kind of thing I would do. You'll get caught. Just… stay safe, okay?"

"Okay."

Dean turned to go. After a brief (very brief) moment of hesitation, Seamus followed him to the door. It was a beautiful night, cool and quiet. The sky was a deep, velvety blue that stood out against the half-moon that hung heavily on the horizon. Dean turned around for a last goodbye, and the porch light fell on his face at weird angles, turning his skin a dark, burnished gold in some places but shading his eyes.

"Hey—if any Death Eaters show up at school, give 'em hell, all right?"

Seamus grinned wickedly, leaning against the doorframe. "Oh, yeah. I never saw what so special about your D.A. anyway; maybe this year the army will actually get to fighting."

"And remember—make sure my family doesn't worry too much, please. I didn't tell Arielle, Meg or Blanche what was going on, obviously they're too young, but Charlotte knows. She'll probably freak out if I'm not back inside a week, so if you could write to her…"

"I will."

"Good."

For a moment, Dean looked as though he might step closer, into the little circle of gold light. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and sincere.

"Seamus… you know you're my best friend, right?"

"I know," Seamus said softly. "You're my best mate too, Dean, so for Merlin's sake be careful. And get going. There's a little wood about three miles south, you can stay there for the night and then go—wherever you're going."

Dean nodded. "Bye."

"Bye."

There was a soft, almost inaudible pop, and Seamus was left alone. He stood there for a long time before closing the door and returning to his bedroom. With a casual flick of his wand, he extinguished the lights, and climbed back into bed.

Sleep evaded him. The shadows cast by the moon, faint as they were, seemed dim and deep. He pictured Dean walking through them, nervously skirting the light.

"Get a grip," he whispered to himself. "He'll be fine."

He fell asleep eventually while detailing every reason that Dean would survive. He'll be fine because he knows how to cook. He'll be fine because he Conjured a candle last year almost as quickly as Hermione. He'll be fine because he can beat me on a broom or on foot.

He'll be fine because… he just has to be.