Chapter Text
Part One
CHAPTER ONE
Meet the Parents (Part Deux)
Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan thundered through the front door eager to escape the unnatural chill of the London summer. The frosted, glass panels tinkled in the frames from the force of Dean slamming it shut behind them. Alarmed by the ruckus, Mrs. Thomas rushed into the narrow wallpapered hallway with a flowery scarf tied over her jet-black flat-ironed bob.
“Boy, what did I tell you about all that racket?”
She stood with a yellow sponge in one hand and a spray bottle of store-brand kitchen cleaner in the other wearing plastic pink gloves.
“Sorry mum,” said Dean slightly embarrassed at being told off in front of Seamus.
“And what’s going on here?” she asked gesturing at Seamus and his overnight bag on the rug.
“Mum,” said Dean through clenched teeth. “I told you I was bringing Seamus round for a bit.”
Mrs. Thomas’ dark circled eyes grew so wide her thin, penciled eyebrows almost disappeared into her scarf.
“Oh really now?” she said in a dangerous tone.
“I did,” he pleaded hoping she wouldn’t embarrass him further. “Remember the letter I sent? Told you we were gonna watch a proper match.”
By ‘proper match’ she knew he meant a muggle game of football with his mates in the park. Mrs. Thomas sucked her teeth and nodded grimly, but there was a hint of a smile in her thin, youthful face.
“Alright there Seamus? Had another good year at Hoggy?” she cracked a sly smile, with deep dimples in her cheek.
Seamus thought she looked like an older female version of Dean, only with darker brown skin and about a head shorter. He broke into a grin also, feeling right at home. Mrs. Thomas’ gruff, but playful demeanor reminded him strongly of his own mum.
“Hoggy,” he snorted at Dean.
“Don’t encourage her mate,” said Dean rolling his eyes.
Seamus stepped forward to shake Mrs. Thomas’ hand, but she ignored his outstretched hand and drew him into a welcoming embrace instead.
“It’s about time you made it over here. You’re the first mate he’s invited from school,” she said letting go, feeling a tad self-conscious in her faded t-shirt and bleach-stained jean shorts.
“Not for lack of trying,” Dean muttered darkly, picking up Seamus’ overnight bag.
This was true. Since the middle of their fourth year, they casually planned for Seamus to spend a bit of the summer holidays in London. After the tragic death of Cedric Diggory during the TriWizard Tournament, on the night of Voldemort’s alleged resurrection, Mrs. Finnigan threatened to homeschool Seamus until he was of age. That effectively killed any summer holiday plans.
However, now that Voldemort’s resurrection was confirmed, having dueled Dumbledore in the atrium of the Ministry of Magic no less, Seamus put his foot down. He stood his ground until his mother saw reason and conceded that the odds of being murdered in a muggle town in south London was possible, but unlikely. After eight hours on a coach bus from Ireland to Victoria Coach Station, a delayed and cramped ride on the tube (escorted by Dean), and a twelve-minute walk from the Tooting Broadway station through the quaint, but busy neighborhood, Seamus was finally there.
“Supper’s not started, but there’s a bag of cheesy crisps in the pantry, and maybe a couple of mangoes in the fridge,” she said.
“Mangoes?” Seamus perked up, now smiling at Dean.
“Put your things away and wash up a bit before tea,” said Mrs. Thomas as she headed towards the kitchen.
“Thanks mum,” Dean said loudly at her retreating back.
“Damn Dean, your mam’s quite fit,” Seamus snickered as they headed for the mauve carpeted stairs.
“Piss off Seamus. Don’t talk about my mum like that,” said Dean attempting to kick behind him at Seamus.
“Damn right I am!” she shouted from below.
They burst into a fit of hushed laughter as they stepped into Dean’s room. It was the smaller of the two bedrooms and lightly furnished with a bed, an old Cherry wood writing desk, and a matching dresser that doubled as a bookshelf. Unlike the glossy, rosy wallpaper downstairs, the walls were stark white, but Dean had wildly decorate his barely lived-in room with muggle posters of West Ham players. His unpacked trunk, still filled with potion supplies and books from their finished fifth year, sat beneath the small window covered with curtains matching the West Ham colours. Instead of a TV and video game console, art supplies and sketchbooks littered the writing desk and parts of the floor.
Dean walked across the room and tossed Seamus’ bag on top of the trunk. Seamus shut the door and collapsed on the squeaky bed (covered in the same colors as his West Ham curtains) still laughing at Mrs. Thomas’ unexpected and cheeky retort. Dean plopped down next to him shaking his head.
“Told you, she’s a right piece of work.”
“Nah she’s great,” Seamus gushed softly.
He fell back with his arms flung over his head. His dark sandy-coloured hair fanned out over the burgundy duvet and his t-shirt hitched up exposing his slightly freckled flat abs. Seamus closed his eyes and draped an arm across his face, while blindly groping for Dean’s backside with the other hand.
At his touch, Dean looked down and zeroed in on the fine, darker hair trailing down Seamus’ stomach. When he realised there was no underwear band or sign of boxers, Dean gulped loudly as his eyes continued to follow what he imagined was the happy trail leading to Seamus naked crotch beneath his jeans. With concerted effort, he lifted his eyes to look Seamus in the face, and shifted just out of reach.
Undeterred, Seamus peeked up at Dean with a devilish grin and tugged sharply on the end of Dean’s shirt hoping to pull him closer.
“Are you mad?” Dean whispered hotly, swotting his hand away. He slid over even farther.
Frowning in confusion, Seamus sat up halfway, resting on his elbows.
“Your mam’s downstairs! She won’t hear us,” he whispered feeling slighted.
Dean sighed looking at his hands. “We’ve got to, I don’t know, wait until she’s goes—”
Just then the doorknob turned and his bedroom door creaked open. Dean leaped off the bed, almost willing the door to magically shut, and stood panicky next to the dresser. Seamus sat up fully, taking his cue from Dean, and the bed creaked loudly under his weight. Mrs. Thomas poked her head in, sans headscarf.
“Are you almost done putting your stuff away?” Her eyes narrowed in suspicion at the sight of them. “What’re you up to?”
“Nothing,” they chorused, hardly daring to look at one another.
Mrs. Thomas raised a single thin eyebrow.
“Um-hmm. I need you to go to Sainsbury right quick for a few things. And please don’t take all day!”
She placed a twenty-pound note and a short list of items written on a used envelope on top of the writing desk, then shut the door behind her. Not really knowing what to say, but not wanting to continue their conversation, Dean walked over and snatched up the money and list.
“It’s not far,” he said for lack of anything else, “But we should carry our wands. You never know. Dementors.”
Seamus watched Dean step into the hallway. Then he walked over to his bag, yanked out his wand, and followed Dean out of the bedroom.
* * *
The main shop street reminded Seamus of Diagon Alley: A wide, windy road, sloping slightly uphill and crammed with shops. Every other store was either a mobile shop with bright yellow signs, or small-owned women’s boutiques displaying sequined gowns and elaborately embroidered saris in the window front. There were chemist shops, home repair businesses, cafes, off-licence shops, and no less than three competing Peri-Peri takeaways in a two-block radius. Adding to the congestion of the busy pavements were stalls packed with crates of fresh vegetables, fruits and herbs.
They had walked for several blocks in an awkward silence, which Seamus was about to break, when a voice called out behind them.
“Dean! Yo Dean!”
They spun around to see a wiry, black kid in a baggy shirt and track pants dash out of a mobile shop. Two other brown boys followed behind.
Dean threw his hands up in the air as he jogged towards the trio grinning. Seamus followed at a distance.
“Yo Ayo!”
Dean clasped Ayo’s hand and pulled him into a one-armed hug. He greeted the other two boys the same way.
“Eh man, I thought that was you! When’d you get back?” Ayo said with a slight Nigerian accent.
“Not long. Just a few days ago really,” Dean shrugged.
“Pfft, you still at the mental school for ASBOs, eh?” joked the Sikh boy in an orange turban. He swaggered over in a rival football jersey and track pants spinning a muddy football in his hands.
“Shut it Ravi,” Dean teased darting forward to steal away the ball.
They jostled as Ayo bumped elbows and shadowboxed the other boy in glasses who looked at Seamus bored. Ayo followed his gaze. Seamus scowled feeling like a fifth wheel. Ayo shoved Dean’s shoulder nodding in Seamus’ direction.
“Who’s that?”
Dean finally wrenched the ball from Ravi and turned around smiling sheepishly. He nearly forgot Seamus was there.
“Oh yeah. This is my mate from school Seamus.”
The trio “Oooh’ed” in a falsetto chorus.
“Oh, is that your mate, huh Dean?” Ravi winked.
Dean rolled his eyes speaking loudly over Ravi, “And Seamus, this is Ayo, Ravi, and Cheese—”
“Who’s named for reason that can’t be explained here,” said Ayo leaning forward conspiratorially. He had very white teeth that stood in contrasted against his flawlessly smooth black skin.
They snickered at their inside joke, but Cheese just massaged his sparse chin hair opting to remain silent on the matter. He slouched like a sullen loner with his unruly poof of curls and thick glasses that magnified his wide brown eyes. Seamus thought he looked like a cross between a poodle and Professor Trelawney and couldn’t imagine what a goofy-looking kid like him had done to earn what sounded like a notorious reputation. But then he realised he didn’t actually care. He wished Dean would say goodbye to his friends so it could be just the two of them. After all, Dean had all summer to catch up properly.
But Dean, still chuckling softly and knocking elbows with Ravi, was oblivious to Seamus’ mood. Ravi casually flung an arm over his shoulders with some effort (Dean was the tallest of the group) and steered Dean down the street. Ayo and Cheese exchanged a knowing glance and followed behind resuming a previous conversation. Seamus blinked in disbelief abandoned.
“Seamus, hurry up!” Dean called behind him, laughing at something Ravi whispered in his ear as they crossed the street to enter the large super market.
Seamus bit on his bottom lip shook his head, and slowly jogged to catch up. To his chagrin, Dean’s mates did not part ways until the shopping was done and they were only three houses down from Dean’s home. Goodbye was a jocular scene punctuated with playful jabs, hugs, and indefinite plans to meet up for a match in the nearby park. Seamus waved everyone goodbye half-heartedly, but as he locked eyes on Ravi, he was sorely tempted to flip him off.
“Oh come on. They’re alright,” said Dean noticing the look on Seamus’ face as they walked up to the front door.
“ ‘Spect they are. You sure I’m not taking up too much of your time? I’d hate to be a, y’know inconvenience,” Seamus said scratching his chin with his thumb studying the purple Verbenas in Mrs. Thomas’ garden.
Dean held onto the key in the door, tightening his grip on the orange shopping bag in his other hand.
“Seriously? What the hell are you on about?”
Seamus refused to look at him. Dean shivered slightly from the abrupt unnatural chill in the air. They entered the warm hallway and Dean was grateful his mum already put the kettle on. Seamus brushed past him, knocking against his shoulder roughly, and stomped upstairs.
“Don’t you want tea Seamus? Seamus?”
* * *
Dinner that night was an odd tense affair.
Mrs. Thomas exuded a casual elegance in an emerald green linen dress. In between bites of her curry jerk chicken and fragrant coconut rice, her eyes swung between the teen boys like a pendulum. Dean (on her left) poked at this food distracted; Seamus (on her right) stabbed at the roasted vegetables as he viciously chewed through his chicken. She was baffled by the violent plunge in mood between them.
Mrs. Thomas remembered her observation of them last September at King’s Cross station before they crossed the barrier to Platform 9 ¾. They were rambunctious and earnest in their delight at seeing one another. Not once had Dean ever written to say that he had a fight with Seamus. In fact, when he had been harassed and messed about by other students (on the rare occasions he wrote her), he boasted that Seamus always backed him up. So it was quite disconcerting to sit at the dinner table beneath a haze of hostility. She couldn’t think what had transpired in the past three or four hours to bring on such a black mood between them.
But she hazarded a guess.
“So Seamus, romancing any darlings at this school then?” she said taking a sip of white wine.
Dean whipped his head up in alarm. Seamus’ fork froze mid-spear as he slowly turned to look at Mrs. Thomas. Her tone was this side of casual, delightfully light-hearted, but there was a directness that set him on guard. This was a verbal landmine and he had plenty of experience navigating these types of dangerous conversations with his own mother. Seamus’ eyes flicked at Dean: he sat stiffly and clenched his fork, uncomfortable by the topic as well. Seamus almost felt for him, but then the image of Ravi’s lips close to Dean’s ear floated in his mind’s eye and he opened his mouth with a reckless reply.
“Well, I’m no Lothario, but there was me and Lavender, Lavender Brown during our fourth year. But I reckon she’s moved on now,” he said smiling for the first time since he arrived. “O’ course Dean here—” and he finally looked at him with a carefully constructed smile, “He’s the real lady wrangler. It’s almost hard to keep up! Thought we’d have to get him a timetable to keep ‘em straight, ain’t that right Dean?” he laughed too loudly.
Dean did a double take, his eyes wide in surprise. Mrs. Thomas’ heavily mascara’d eyes shifted from Seamus to Dean.
“Oh really now?” she said genuinely surprised, tugging the corners of her lips down impressed, setting down her wine glass intrigued.
Dean’s mouth gaped open at such an outlandish lie. He tried to fix his face before looking his mom in the eye. Seamus, wanting to do the thing properly, continued with a spiteful glint in his eye.
“Oh yeah! Didn’t he tell you about the latest, Ginny Weasley? She’s one of our mate’s younger sister— but not too young,” he said off Mrs. Thomas’ look of reproach, “Only a year below. ‘Spect they’ll be the darlings of our year,” he finished with a savage grin. Devoid of an appetite, he picked up the short glass of fizzy drink and chugged it noisily.
“And how long were you going to wait before telling me?” Mrs. Thomas said to Dean not trying to hide her amusement.
For the first time that evening, Dean shoveled an indecent amount of food in his mouth with a shrug. It was a diversionary tactic Mrs. Thomas knew too well.
“I see,” she said savouring a small sip of wine as she waited for Dean to finish chewing.
She glanced at the pair of them once more: Dean chewed furiously throwing daggers at Seamus, who equally returned a look of bitter resentment. It was quite comical, almost something out of a Victorian novel, or one of her absurd reality TV shows: a fight over a girl. How pedestrian.
“You done?” she asked Dean, determined not to let him off the hook. “So how long have you and this Gigi—”
“Ginny,” Dean and Seamus blurted out, their eyes darting away from each other’s face.
“Right. Ginny. So you’ve been together since when?” she steepled her fingers dramatically resting her elbows on the table.
“We haven’t. Not really,” Dean said sharply, more to Seamus than his mum. “She just asked if I had plans for summer holiday.”
“Yeah, but she told Harry and Ron—” Seamus interrupted.
Dean banged his fist on the table rattling their plates and silverware. “She told them! I didn’t sign on for nothin’ official, did I?”
His sharp tone of indignation had done it.
It sparked the realisation that slowly dawned on Mrs. Thomas. This wasn’t just about a girl. She briefly hoped that her suspicions were somewhat off-base, but the angry, confused stares between them was all the confirmation she needed. She cleared her throat to get their attention. Dean blinked rapidly as if awaking out of a trance and reached for his drink. Eyes downcast, Seamus traced the rim of his empty glass with a finger.
“I’ve made pudding for dessert.”
“No thanks, ma’am.”
“I don’t want any.”
“Hmph, more for me then,” she said with a forced tone of cheerfulness.
But they didn’t take the bait.
“Well then, if you two are done, you can do the washing and off you go.”
“Together?” there was a small note of disgust and panic in Dean’s voice.
Mrs. Thomas raised an expertly filled in eyebrow: “Of course not. Seamus is your guest.”