Chapter Text
Were you to blame, or was it my fault, love?
Was it just the time, did we just refuse to see?
Where are you now, and is it really over for you now?
That well-known feeling, me talking, you smiling
Perhaps I said a little too little
Perhaps I thought you'd read between the lines
(loosely translated lyrics from a Dutch song called Hoofd Onder Water by Is Ook Schitterend)
It was only the first month of his seventh year and Seamus Finnigan already wanted to die. The dungeon he was currently in was icy cold and stank of mildew, and that was only the best part of it. For some reason, the Carrows liked to pick him out for their torture practices more then anyone else. He had been hoisted up by his wrist in rusty, heavy chains by a gleaming Filch, and Amycus Carrow had been sure to hex them to a bone-breaking tight grip. His ankles were firmly tied down to the floor with thick, enchanted ropes. Effectively, his body was getting stretched beyond it's natural limits, which was already very, very painful. But if that wasn't enough, both Death Eaters were simultanously casting the Cruciatus curse on Seamus' outstretched body, leaving the boy howling in excruciating pain for several long seconds in a row. It felt like fiendfyre burning through his spine, like poisoned claws piercing his organs, and Seamus could not think anymore. He could not speak- only scream.
“See, that's how it's done. Now you take a go, Parkinson.”
Before Seamus had gathered enough of his senses back to grasp what was going on, another spike of pain surged through his body, making him convulse and twist in his restraints. It only made the stretching worse, and he didn't even noticed how he'd defiled himself. It didn't last as long as the first time, and Pansy was only one witch, but it didn't seem to make too much difference to the Irish boy, who was now incoherently sobbing and whimpering, his voice cracked from the screams.
“Let's leave it at that, before he looses his mind. He's of no use without his mind intact.”
They stripped him from his filthy clothes, hosed him down with icy water from their wands, then sent Parkinson away. The Slytherin girl grinned at him, but Seamus didn't believe there was much enthusiasm in that grin. Maybe it'd been too much, even for her cruelty.
“Where is Harry Potter?”
The same question they'd asked him over and over, for the past two, three hours or so. He didn't know exactly how long it'd been, just that it was far too long.
“I don't know.”
“I don't believe you. Where is Hermione Granger? Where is Ronald Weasley? Where are your traitor-friends?”
“S-sod off.”
Seamus hated his voice for faltering, for feeling like he was about to cry. He was supposed to be brave, a true Gryffindor hero, but right now it was bloody damn hard.
“You insolent little freak!”
A crack sounded through the air and Seamus' head was knocked back by a force like a firy whip hitting him in the face. He opened his mouth to scream, but his voice was so cracked that all that came out was a pathetic little whimper. It burned. It burned badly. And he was used to burns in his face. But nothing he'd experienced so far burned like this, this evil fire that felt like it would burn his face off completely. It lasted only a few seconds, but when the spell ended, he could still feel his left cheek ache and swell fro the impact, like he'd received an actual burn.
Fitting, he guessed, as he had 'accidentally' set fire to Alecto's robes earlier that day. It was the excuse they'd used this time to give him 'detention'. But Seamus still didn't regret it; it'd distracted her from giving a first-year detention for crying in the hall ways. Even though the seventh year was now paying an exaggerated prize, he knew it was worth it.
“Where is Harry Potter?”
He didn't even have enough of his voice left to answer properly this time. He just shook his head and croaked a barely audible 'dunno'. And it was true, too. They'd forcefed him veritaserum before they started, the bloody idiots. Why didn't they believe him? Then again, he never believed those Death Eaters were particularly bright to begin with. How long would he have to endure this godawful senseless violence?
“Well, well, well...”
A familiar voice interrupted the scene. Seamus shuddered. As if the torture he'd just gone through wasn't enough without a contribution from the Headmaster.
“As foolishly stubborn as the rest of his house, it seems. May I ask, have you inquired about his special friend, the Thomas boy?”
Oh no. Not that. Don't ask me about him. Seamus pressed his eyes shut tightly. Perhaps, if he'd fake to have lost consciousness he could avoid speaking about Dean. Of course, he had no idea where Dean was, but he was terrified they would somehow find out how Dean was his weakness. But Snape saw right through him, and he moved, in that awful, gliding way of his, to where Seamus was hanging. And Seamus could feel how he lifted his chin, sending a spike of pain through the damaged side of his face.
“Tell me, Finnigan... What happened to Thomas?”
“Gone,” he whispered, and there was no way he could hide the heartfelt sorrow behind that word.
“O-on the run.”
“How tragic that he's not here to hold your hand, isn't it?”
“Rot in hell.”
He'd said it before realising the error in his ways. He heard an angry hiss as the Headmaster retreated his hand just to slap right across his fresh wound. After the initial burn, it just felt numb now, although a headache was swiftly spreading from the impact. Seamus briefly worried about internal damage.
“Fifty points from Gryffindor for that mouth!”
As if he cared at all about House points anymore.
“This boy has nothing useful to tell us. Let him hang for another hour to think about his mistakes. He's to be banned from the medical wing for another day. Alecto, Amycus, I need you in my office now. We have more urgent matters to discuss.”
Seamus was surprised that that was all. But perhaps Snape did have a better brain in him, and realised that he was speaking the truth anyway. After all, Snape was the potion master. Grumbling, the Death Eaters complied with his orders, leaving Parkinson behind to guard him and set him free when his detention was over.
Later that night, when Seamus was finally let go, he only had Neville to look after his injuries back in the Gryffindor dorms. Granted, Neville was pretty rad with his plants, and he managed to grind up some root that really helped to take the worst edges of Seamus' pain.
“That bloody bastard will pay for not letting you get proper medical attention,” the roundfaced, usually softspoken boy threatened.
“Thanks, Neville... We'll make do with Muggle first aid and your … What's it called, Nettleroot?”
“Kettleroot, well, I hope I have enough...” The boy muttered worriedly, busying himself with wrapping bandages tightly around Seamus' swollen wrists.
“They really got you this time. They get worse every day.”
“I know, Neville. I just wish we could pay them back for it, like, truly.”
“We will, I'm sure. Just... Just wait for Harry to come back, and the others.”
“Yeah.”
They had had this same conversation every night, and Seamus was getting a little tired of it to be honest. It was hard to cling to a vague hope that their friends would come rescue them, while nobody knew where they were, or whether they were even still alive. He swallowed thickly. Please, let Dean still be alive somewhere out there. Then again, they hadn't heard their names being mentioned on any illegal radio show they had managed to liste to, yet. And surely, the Death Eaters would throw a party as soon as Harry was captured and killed, right? It was too depressing to think about for too long.
“Neville, I think we... We might need to find a way to fight ourselves.”
“Yes. You're absolutely right. I have been thinking about it, too. There's still some members from the DA around, and if I can figure out a way to let them all know... Maybe if they all still have their coins?”
Neville was thinking out loud and Seamus let him ramble on, lying back in his bed. He wasn't ashamed to let Neville see he was holding an old jumper of Dean, which had somehow ended up in his trunk. It still smelled like his best friend, and it gave him a little, much needed comfort.
“It'll take time to set everything up. Don't speak about it to anyone yet, okay, Seamus?”
“Of course, I hope you don't take me for a fool.”
“No, of course not, sorry.”
“It's alright, Neville, I am just tired. I want to try and catch some sleep, if I can.”
The other boy nodded, slowly standing up from the edge of Seamus' bed where he'd sat to nurse his friend's injuries. He turned to face Seamus, glancing briefly at the piece of crumpled fabric that Seamus was pressing to his face.
“I still don't know why you never told him, Shae. You're not the type to be scared of anything.”
“Well... That's the bloody only thing I've ever been really scared of. If you don't count Banshees, of course.”
They both smiled sadly.
“Seems a bit silly now huh, those boggarts back then.”
“Yes. Yes, it does. I'm terrified now, really. Neville, what if something happens to him, and I'll just never know?”
“It won't. He's gonna be okay, Seamus, I promise.”
“I wish I'd told him. But maybe then he wouldn't have run... And he had to. I know he had to. Or maybe he... Maybe he would have stil run, but he would have never wanted to see me again.”
“You're shit to yourself, you know that, Seamus Finnigan?”