Disclaimer: I make no claims to J.K. Rowling's genius. This is just me being bored. Also, I credit the song "Carry On My Wayward Son" to Kansas. Fyi.

A/N: Please bear in mind that this is a multi-chaptered fic, and will improve with time. No, really.







1: CORRINE






The snowflakes spiraling downward made her feel like she was soaring up through the stars.

Corrine Wayward rested her head against her dormitory window and stared across the grounds blankly, watching, but not truly seeing, the fat, feathery snowflakes drift and alight on the ground.

It seemed so long ago…her last happy Christmas…

Corrine did not wish to think about the sad memories, all so recent, that had invaded her life and turned it in circles. She carefully filed them and put them aside in her mind, as was her wont, internalizing everything and saving it for another time.

The window faintly reflected her face, and, with a wry half-smile, Corrine realized that she matched the landscape outside. From her father, ivory skin like snow (though her complexion possessed a faint olive tint); thick black hair from her Spanish mother that disappeared against the blackness of the forest; and stormy blue-grey eyes, just the shade of the darkening twilight sky. Although Loretta Clark, her best friend, said that her eyes could also charitably be compared to the lint that collected in the pockets of jeans.

A round face like a snowman, too, Corrine thought resentfully, staring at herself. Not pretty by a long shot.

Her current state of lazy vanity was a ploy to distract herself and keep the melancholy thoughts at bay. Corrine had managed to live like this for seventeen years, not realizing that this dam she had constructed in her mind was a temporary structure; the build-up of negativity behind it would eventually crush it and overflow.

She pushed herself up and left the dormitory, determined to reach the library. Homework could certainly distract her for a time.

As Corrine passed through the Gryffindor common room, she noticed Seamus Finnigan sitting next to the fire, gazing at it blankly. She quickly averted her eyes, blushing hotly. She'd fancied Seamus for as long as she could remember. To her consternation, they were the only two Gryffindors staying for the holidays, and two of seven students in total remaining at Hogwarts for Christmas.

Corrine shook her head, shaking her head sadly. So much tragedy…

She was staying by choice. Her parents were currently undergoing a rocky divorce, and she was distancing herself from it, as she did with so many negative things. Seamus's parents were dead.

She winced in recollection. Memories of early October flooded her: the sight of a black owl targeting Seamus…the stamp of a famous wizarding funeral home on the thick envelope …the way the blood drained from his face…

Corrine had known the Finnigans. Their mothers had been close friends – a Spaniard and an Irish woman, married to British men, displaced from their native countries; they had hit it off in some witches' club they belonged to. For the first seven years of their childhood, Corrine and Seamus were inseparable. Then her family had moved south, severing the ties between the two families. Neither, apparently, was good at keeping in touch. Four years later, in their first year of Hogwarts, Seamus had not recognized her.

He and his relatives had not invited the Waywards to the funeral. But they went anyway, if only for a memory. Corrine had spent the whole ordeal hiding in the back of the crowd with her parents and casting furtive looks at Seamus. He hadn't noticed her. He still didn't know she had been there to watch him cry on the shoulder of his grandmother.

"'Therefore, ye soft pipes, play on,'" Corrine murmured softly, hearing the plaintive bagpipe music of two months previous swirl in her ears.

The library was empty of students. Only Madam Pince and Filch graced it, their heads bent together in solemn conversation. Both glared at her when she dared intrude on their privacy.

Corrine melted obligingly into a remote corner, far away from them. She'd been alone long enough in her life to appreciate the value of solitude.

Perhaps her loneliness made her both more and less susceptible to the desperation and emotion of the times. It caused her to be caught up in her own private sorrow, a burden of grief that she couldn't share with anyone. However, when everyone left and disappeared, it frankly didn't cause her any more or less desolation than she normally felt.

Take, for example, the Golden Trio, Harry, Ron, and Hermione. They hadn't shown up for this school year. Corrine knew that they'd gone to hunt down and kill Voldemort. On the one hand, the swelling, simultaneous gratefulness and fear she felt for them threatened to overwhelm her. But on the other, she hadn't known them very well. They never talked to her, although they didn't go out of their way to ignore her. And so, despite her concern for their well-being, it was really only as a casual observer. Her only friend was Loretta, and even she was a dubious familiar, often choosing to associate with her Ravenclaw classmates over quiet, serious Corrine Wayward.

Corrine shook her head as she spread her books open on the table. It was a vicious circle.

The Transfigurations homework, usually the one assignment she actually enjoyed, swam before her eyes. Corrine sighed. If she couldn't even concentrate on her favorite subject, she obviously wasn't going to get anything done.

She surrendered and allowed her thoughts to engulf her. In times like this, it was better to just go with the flow of her stream of consciousness.

She was afraid, Corrine reflected quietly, her face pillowed on her fists. She was, frankly, terrified. That emotion was the one that stood out the clearest as she thought about the situation of the wizarding world.

And why?

She had no friends to lose. Her parents didn't even care at this point.

In short, she had herself.

I don't want to die, Corrine thought dimly. God help it all, I don't want to die before I'm supposed to. This isn't supposed to happen.

It was the denial, creeping back to catch her unawares. After she'd first heard that Voldemort was back on the rise, she'd categorically refused to believe it. It was impossible…her world, imperfect as it was, could not be this twisted apart…

But it was. Corrine had faced it, and was facing it now.

It could have been worse. It could have been far worse. She could have had more at stake besides herself and the general normalcy of her life. She could have had friends, a closer family, a boyfriend…something else. But she didn't.

Would that make her sacrifice any less?

Would it be so terribly selfish of her to be more upset over the loss of her balanced, if flawed, life, rather than the deaths of so many innocents?

Foolish tears clouded her eyes, and Corrine swiped them away impatiently. This was the darker side of her thinking, the side that always thought of her, and only her. The side that didn't care how many died, just as long as she kept on living.

And that, in short, is how I feel about this war, Corrine decided. I hate it. I'm scared of it. I'm scared for people. I'm scared for the world. But most of all, I'm scared for myself and what could happen to me. That's not how I want to be. But that's how it is. That's the truth. And I won't try to change it. By now, she knew herself well enough to realize that she would not change her mind once it was made up. Her last name fit her well.

Her rapid thoughts died away. Corrine sighed and started nibbling at a hangnail.

She had nowhere to go. Nothing to do. No one to love.

"Hey, who — Corrine?"

Corrine started, banging her knee on the desk and cursing furiously, her cheeks bright red. Beyond the intruder, Madam Pince cast her a nasty look.

"Sorry, did I startle you?" Seamus asked worriedly, strolling up to her. "You scared me as well, though. There's usually no one in the library this time at night, least of all way back here."

Close up, Corrine could clearly see the pallor of his freckled face, the dark shadows under his sad eyes. He was grieving in a way she never would, for something she would never have…

"I didn't want to risk the wrath of Madam Pince," she explained, keeping her tone light. Then, curiosity overcoming her, she added, "You know my name?"

He stared at her, frowning slightly, obviously surprised. "Well, of course," he replied. "I mean, we were neighbors, and all. I didn't think you remembered me. Through all the years, we never really talked much. Wonder why?" His countenance cleared. "So I guess we really do remember each other, just never let on. Funny how these misunderstandings happen, aye?"

"Yeah," Corrine agreed. His melodic Irish accent was pleasant to hear.

"D'you want to sit down?" she added hastily, indicating the seat across from her. "I'd love the company." Shyness was never her weak point.

Seamus smiled, a grin that illuminated his face. "Sure," he agreed readily. Corrine's steady, serious heart almost skipped a beat, then realized how romance-novel that sounded and decided against it.

"So," he asked when seated, "how has your first day of holidays been?"

Corrine reflected on all her possible answers and settled on, "Uneventful. And yours?"

His face somewhat bleak, Seamus said, "Fine." He wouldn't meet her eyes.

Corrine raised one eyebrow. "Seamus, I do believe you're lying to me."

This caused him to lift his head, grinning lopsidedly. His hazel eyes danced merrily. "Corrine, I do believe you're lying to me too. Or at least not including the whole story."

She smiled back. "Fine. I'll admit I'm lying if you do the same."

Was this flirting? Could she possibly be flirting with Seamus Finnigan after all they'd been through and all they and their world were now going through? It seemed so strange that something so comfortingly normal as flirting could go on.

Seamus exhaled, leaning back and running his finger through brownish-blond hair. "Yeah. Yeah, I was lying. Christmas this year is…" His face twisted with sorrow.

Boldly, Corrine reached out a hand and covered his, squeezing gently. "I know," she whispered.

He gazed blankly at their joined hands. "How?" he whispered back, his voice cracking. "How could you ever possibly know?"

Corrine took her time choosing her words, laying them out carefully in her mind before voicing them. "I have absolutely no idea what you're going through," she admitted honestly. "I could never know. I've never been blessed with people that important in my life. But I do realize that it's a terrible tragedy, and it must be hard for you."

It was awhile before Seamus responded, his eyes still locked on their hands, as if they were somehow anchoring him to the present.

"The funny thing is," he said slowly, "the funny thing is, we weren't even that close. I mean, especially me and my mum. We fought a lot. At the time, I could only think…God, why can't she be easy-going? Why can't she give up for once?

"And I kind of feel…I dunno. Maybe that's why she did give up her life. Because she somehow realized that I wanted her to surrender. And now…now I'm never going to fight with her again. That's kind of a check, you know? Makes you regret wishful thinking. Because I'd never wish that, if I had known. I'd never…"

To do him justice, Seamus did not cry, not at this moment. His eyes sparkled dangerously and his lips twitched, but not a tear did he shed.

For once in her capable life, Corinne couldn't think of anything to say. "I – I'm sorry, Seamus," she stuttered. "I don't know what to say. If I could…but I can't." She gave his hand another comforting squeeze.

His face brightened marginally. "It's enough that you're listening. I could never talk about this to Dean. Not at all. Too sappy for us. And Parvati and Lavender…well, they're nice, but they don't care, not the way you do. Somehow, it's easier to talk to you about this."

Corrine colored slightly and dropped her eyes, confused. "Well, thanks, I guess," she said awkwardly. "Must be the, er, childhood ties, right?" She blinked and raised her eyes again, smiling crookedly.

He returned the wry smile. "Speaking of which, does anyone still call you Cori?"

Corrine shrugged. "My parents did when we were still talking to each other. Loretta mostly calls me Corrine. Sometimes Kansas." When Seamus looked blank, she shrugged again, explaining, "Apparently some Yankee band called Kansas recorded a song called 'Carry On, My Wayward Son.' Muggle, of course. Play on my last name, I suppose, though not a very good joke. Er…you're more than welcome to call me Cori, though." She smiled warmly. "For old time's sake."

The warm light in Seamus's eyes was better than butterbeer. "I'd hoped you'd say that," he said quietly. "It – it reminds me of years ago, when none of this stuff had happened…"

"Yeah," Corrine responded, just as softly, "I know what you mean."

Seamus seemed to rouse himself from memories and fixed his eyes steadfastly on hers. "What about you?" he queried, hazel eyes clear and inquiring. "How has the war affected you?"

And without quite knowing how it was happening, Corrine found herself spilling everything she had just thought about to Seamus. She left nothing out, not even her selfishness — Corrine was inherently truthful and never tried to sugar-coat her flaws. She told him of her fears, her confusion, her persistent rebellion against the upset Voldemort was causing, her denial, her self-centered worries. It all tumbled out in a rush of emotion.

Seamus listened so patiently, so willingly, his eyes studying her face without a trace of blame or bias; it was difficult to stop talking. Corrine willed herself to wrap it up.

"And I think another part of it is," Corrine finished, "that I feel like I – we – all the Gryffindors should hide how we really feel. Because we're supposed to be the brave ones. And I'm supposed to be doubly brave, since I don't have a caring family or friends to lose, and so I have to be stronger for those who do and worry about it."

Seamus quirked his mouth. "I understand that. But look at it this way: maybe being brave isn't hiding what you feel, but being courageous enough to show it. Maybe it's being the one who has the guts to cry for what our world is now and show compassion to those who feel the same way but just can't show it. And as a Gryffindor…Cori, you don't have to try to be brave. You're a Gryffindor. That's what you're known for. That's what we're known for. You are strong by nature. And what do you mean, you have nothing to lose? You have friends, Cori."

Corrine raised her eyebrows. "Er…no, not really."

All Seamus said was, "You have me."

Corrine frowned. "Well…yes…I mean, I do consider you my friend, albeit a little…well…" She trailed off helplessly.

"What?"

"Well, you must admit, this is a little unorthodox. Estranged childhood best friends suddenly reunite in the library a week before Christmas and relay all their woes and fears." Corrine shook her head, blue-black hair swinging. "It's like a storybook."

Seamus shrugged prosaically. "At least storybooks have happy endings."

Corrine sighed. "Do you think this will be a happy ending?" she murmured softly, half to herself.

Seamus heard and squeezed her hand, offering her the same solace that she had given him. "I hope so. But at least now we have each other to talk to?" His eyes were faintly questioning, as was his tone.

Corrine smiled firmly, happiness blossoming in her chest. "I'm glad of that."

They might have sat there smiling at each other for awhile if Madam Pince hadn't interrupted, poking her sharp nose around the corner and nearly shrieking with rage.

"Do you two realize that you're in here half an hour past curfew? You're lucky if I don't report you! Get out, now!"

Corrine and Seamus stumbled out of the library, trying desperately not to laugh. "As if we care about curfew," Seamus snorted once out of earshot.

Corrine nodded in agreement. "Still, I would rather like to return to the common room, now that she mentions it. I wanted to go for an early walk tomorrow morning, so I planned to go to bed soon."

"A walk? Would you mind if I came?"

Seamus's face showed nothing but eager sincerity. Though a small part of her thought that he only did this out of pure loneliness and would abandon her upon the return of Dean, Lavender, and Parvati, Corrine replied, "Of course I wouldn't mind. You're perfectly welcome to come." She smiled warmly and laughed. "I won't wait for you, though."

"Oh, don't worry, I'm an early riser," Seamus assured her. "I – I haven't been sleeping very well lately…"

"Right," Corrine finished for him sympathetically as they neared the Fat Lady's portrait. "Understandable."

The common room was dark, the fire having burned down to a few stray embers. They stood before it awkwardly, suddenly unsure of how to act in so prosaic a situation.

"Well, good night," Corrine said abruptly, making the best of the situation and deciding to end it where it stood. "See you tomorrow morning?"

Seamus's face creased into a smile. "Right. Good night, Corrine." He waved at her as he disappeared into the boys' dormitories.

Corrine sighed. That part of her was nagging again, whispering to her not to trust him…he'd only abandon her like her parents had…

But for now, his friendship was good enough for her.



~*~
On a stormy sea of moving emotion
Tossed about I'm like a ship on the ocean
I set a course for winds of fortune
But I hear the voices say...

Disclaimer: See previous chapter.





2: SEAMUS






I don't think she realizes how beautiful she is.

Maybe I wasn't exactly fair by pretending not to recognize Corrine in our first year. I did notice her; how could I forget her? Her features certainly hadn't changed much. But…

There was something different. There was an odd, older hardness to her face. It was still round, still innocent, but her jaw was sharper, her chin more determined. Perhaps it was the beginnings of the definitive obstinacy she's become famous for.

That and her strange beauty both unnerved me. Because she is beautiful. Not to the classic eye, maybe, not to the average taste. Yet there's something about her, something like the elements — passion of fire, peace of water, grace of air, strength of earth. A little bit of all of these. Maybe a little harder to see the passion, but it's there. It's in the way she walks, the fires in her eyes when she's upset.

The melody of her voice when she's moved.

You can't walk up to a lass like that and say, "Oi, remember me? We used to play in a sandbox together…" You just can't do that.

So I didn't. I only watched her, ached for her when she naturally faded into the shadows, inwardly raged at my classmates for not giving her the attention she deserved. Yet, at the same time, I myself couldn't give her that recognition. Cowardly, perhaps. But true. I wasn't yet sure of myself.

Despite our estrangement, we continued to grow up together, as we had as younger children. We progressed into young adulthood, she in an incredible but quiet way. Perhaps I was the only person who noticed her at our Yule Ball in fourth year and marveled at her cold radiance, a radiance that was, however, not considered to be outright beautiful for most standards. It was for me.

Somewhere between fourth year and fifth year, I fell in love with her. I didn't mean to; I just did. Not in love with her, even, but with the memory of who she had been coupled with the girl I saw in the present. Considering our close bond as children, it was probably inevitable. Still, I fought it. How could I love a girl I didn't talk to, who had apparently forgotten me? It was impossible and uncomfortable.

But, again, true.

This, of course, made it no easier for me to even think of talking to her. So I didn't. I didn't even make an effort, as I sometimes had in the past. There were sometimes moments, when we were in the library on opposite sides, and our eyes would meet for a moment…

And hers would flicker briefly and drop back to her paper, without a sign of recognition.

That was the best that ever happened. And after realizing that I loved her, I went out of my way to make sure even that didn't happen. Again, cowardly, but most would do the same.

Two years passed, and it was seventh year. My last chance. Still, for the first couple months, I hesitated.

And then my parents were killed. And nothing really mattered anymore.

Maybe that's why I finally talked to her in the library. Because the loss my parents was so huge that the potential for rejection paled in comparison. I wasn't afraid of anything anymore. I had already lost the most important part of my life.

That, and I needed a friend. There was virtually no one else at Hogwarts, and who better to befriend than Corrine? She had known my parents, too, which made her immediately more sensitive to me than anyone else I knew.

Looking back on it, I regret not talking to her sooner. Everything was perfect in the library, in an inexplicable way. Maybe if I'd spoken up before…

But the past is the past.

And the future's looking up.


~*~


We went on that walk, and many more – morning and afternoon, sometimes evening when we could sneak out. Mostly, we talked, finding the words that had been lost for so many years. But at other times – the better times, I sometimes thought – we went our way in silence, happy enough in the quiet companionship.

Some things never changed, we found out. She still had a strange connection to nature, still kept to herself, and, as always, was defiantly stubborn. And in the course of the week, she had to keep me from fighting the two Slytherins remaining at Hogwarts and from badmouthing others. The famous Irish temper still ran through my veins.

Only some things, though. More than that had undergone transformations.

"You've changed, Seamus," she told me over breakfast the morning of Christmas Eve.

I swallowed a mouthful of hot cereal and scalded my mouth. Cursing furiously, I took a swig of pumpkin juice, then replied. "How so?"

Corrine grinned crookedly, hooking a lock of hair behind her ear. "Well, you're quieter, for one thing. You never shut up when we were tots. Something else…you're more gallant, I suppose, and gentler." Her gaze wavered and fell.

I smiled uneasily. "You're different too."

Her eyes met mine again, questioning. "How so? I thought, between the both of us, I was the one who hadn't changed…"

I hesitated. Phrase it the wrong way, and it would sound insulting.

"Seamus?"

"Well," I said slowly, taking my time, "you're more thoughtful. And even more stubborn, if that's possible. I can't believe you made me study on a Saturday. And…you're more reserved, I guess. Quieter. Like you're thinking all the time, but you never tell the rest of the world what it is that so occupies you."

Corrine stared at her plate, silent for a moment, then smiled slightly. "You nailed it," she murmured. She rested her chin on her fist, oddly awestruck. "I guess I never really thought of it that way, but yeah, I suppose I don't talk as much." She laughed shortly. "Even when I have someone to talk to. I guess I've gotten so out of the habit of talking to people that…"

Guilt washed over me. She said it so frankly, yet it still stung.

"And," I added awkwardly, "you're even prettier."

A short silence followed that, in which there was much clearing of throats and busying of utensils. "Thanks, Seamus," Corrine answered a little too loudly.

Another pause. "Not at all," I replied cautiously.

Corrine applied herself to her toast for a moment, then said, "What do you want to do today?"

I shrugged. "Haven't the foggiest. You have any plans?"

"I was kind of thinking about going to the library to start Flitwick's project," Corrine informed me.

I rolled my eyes. "Corrine, it's Christmas Eve. Can't you ever take a break?"

She narrowed her eyes, signs that her headstrong streak was surfacing. "Seamus, I need to keep my grades up, because unlike Hermione Granger, I am not a naturally intelligent person. I am going to the library today, and it is up to you whether you want to come with me or not."

I sighed, surrendering. "Of course I'll come." And of course I didn't mind. The library was the location in which most of our deep talking took place.

Today was no different. No sooner had we set up camp at our usual table when Corrine buried her face in her hands and said, in a muffled voice, "I can't take them anymore."

"Take who?" I asked somewhat impatiently.

She waved a hand in the air vaguely. "The teachers. The kids who are left. You. Me. Everyone."

This was different. She sounded so completely hopeless. Brow furrowed, I queried, "Why?"

A sigh blew from her lips. "I…it's just so frustrating. Yeah, You-Know-Who's back and all, but that's no reason to look depressed all the time. Everyone's so sad these days, and I can't help but think that, 'Look, nothing has actually happened to us.'"

Moved to anger, I snapped, "Yeah, nothing has happened to us, that's why my parents are dead, Cori."

She shook her head slowly, turning pink. "I don't mean it that way. That's the thing, though, you still manage to smile, and you have more to grieve about than a lot of people who go around with tears in their eyes half the time. The times are terrifying, yes, but we're still alive, aren't we?"

I shrugged, quirking my mouth as I thought. "I suppose that makes sense."

Corrine pushed her hands through her hair; it spilled between her fingers in glossy strands. "And the teachers. It's annoying how they're always so worried all of the time, but they never talk to the students about it. It's like they think that we can't possibly be as concerned as they are."

This I more than understood. "There's nothing we can do about it, though," I argued prosaically.

Corrine grinned suddenly, mischief winking in her eyes. "Except do Charms homework."

I groaned.

We stayed in the library all day, not necessarily working the whole time, but talking quietly and reading as well, only exiting to eat. Finally, Madam Pince, who had almost warmed up to us by then, informed us that we had to leave.

With good cheer and expectations of the next day, we did so. It was only until we were outside the Fat Lady that I recalled my Charms project, sitting in the library.

"Oh, hell," I cursed wearily. "Cori, go on, I'll be fifteen minutes."

"All right," she said, "I'll be here."

Amazing, how fifteen minutes could change our lives.

When I returned to the common room, it was far darker. The fire had burned low and was now smoldering in the fireplace. I could easily pick out Cori in the darkness, her face unnaturally white, her profile shocked and sad.

I understood immediately that something was terribly wrong, and had the sinking feeling I knew what it was.

"Cori?" I was instantly at her side. "Cori, what's wrong?"

She stared up at me, stormy eyes huge and confused in her pale face, and held up something that had been fluttering in her trembling fingers.

The sickening sight of a stamp with a wand-embossed tomb was a familiar one. My stomach curdled.

"Oh, God, Cori," I whispered.

"It's my father," she told me, quite composed. Her face betrayed her, twitching every so often despite her best efforts. "You-Know-Who's Death Eaters murdered him. They don't know why. I have to leave for the funeral in two days." Her speech was slightly jerky.

I collapsed beside her and took her into my arms, holding her close. "Oh, Cori," I said lamely, "I am so sorry."

She was shaking violently with the force of her suppressed sorrow. "Cry, Cori. Be brave and cry," I urged softly.

And to my surprise, she did.

It started as a faint whimpering into my shoulder. Then a broken sob. Finally, the heart-wrenching wail of a lost child. She clung to me, her hands gripping my robes. It nearly broke my heart.

Through her tears, Cori began to speak, stumbling in and out of coherence. "I – hate – him, I hate – him, I'll – kill him, I'll kill him, I'll go find H-Harry and Ron and Her-Her-Hermione and I swear it, I will help them kill him…"

"Shh," I soothed, patting her back awkwardly. "I know. I know. Just try to relax…"

Slowly, her sorrow dwindled down to mere sniffles and unsteady sighs, and she soon disentangled herself from me, wiping her eyes furiously. I fished about in my pockets and produced a handkerchief, which she accepted. She mopped her face with unsteady hands and then simply sat, wringing the white cloth and staring vacantly into the glowering coals.

"It's like something I heard once," Cori said in a low voice, "'You don't know what you have until you've lost it.' We weren't — we weren't close, not at all, but now…God, Seamus, I'd give anything to have him back." She shifted her hopeless gaze to the somber parchment that had floated, forgotten, to the couch. "I don't want to go."

I waited, then said, "I'm going with you."

Her head whipped around, black hair swinging to hit her in the face. "Oh, Seamus, no. It's…no. You don't have to go."

"I want to," I said inexorably. "I want to be there for you."

It was agonizing, how quickly she gave in, without even a hint of fight. "All right," she whispered. "Thanks, Seamus."

We sat in silence, drawing Gryffindor strength from each other. Finally —

"Seamus, stay down here with me," Cori murmured. "I don't want to be alone tonight."

What else would I have done?

"All right, Cori."

And so we stayed. Her breathing gradually evened out, and she slept in my arm, head pillowed against my chest.

Growing drowsier by the minute, I checked my watch. The numbers blurred in my sleepy vision. 12:36 a.m.

"Right…Christmas," I muttered before drifting off into dreamless sleep.


~*~
Carry on my wayward son,
There'll be peace when you are done
Lay your weary head to rest
Don't you cry no more…

Disclaimer: See chapter one.






3: CORRINE







Like a baby blinking its eyes at the world for the first time, Corrine slowly cracked her lids open Christmas morning. Crystalline light reflected from a window flooded her vision. She squinted, oddly uncomfortable and wondering what sort of squashy thing she was lying on.

Then it all came flooding back.

Father.

Dead.

Seamus.

Corrine stirred in his arms, afraid to wake him up, and looked up to see his straightforward hazel eyes staring down at her. He grinned sheepishly, turning pink. "Er…morning," he greeted her tentatively.

"Happy Christmas, Seamus," she told him softly.

His gaze altered, fell, mirroring his sadness. "I've thought of happier ones," he responded somewhat bitterly.

Corrine shook her head desperately, trying to forget. "Oh, please, Seamus. Just for this morning, let's not talk about last night. I want to open my presents and talk with you and eat breakfast first. And then maybe we'll go back to it. But…not this morning…it's supposed to be cheerful…" Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat self-consciously.

Seamus opened his mouth to argue, then closed it, giving in. "Your choice," he conceded somewhat grimly. He shifted under her; it was only then that Corrine remembered that she lay on top of him.

"Oh!" she gasped, embarrassed. "I, er…sorry."

"It's all right," he said soothingly. "But would you, er, mind?"

Corrine rolled off him obligingly.

Seamus stood and stretched, joints resounding in a cacophony of pops and cracks. Corrine winced.

"Shall we to the presents, then?" Seamus asked with fake animation.

Corrine nearly smiled. "All right."

The house-elves, clever and discerning as they were, had not laid the gifts in the two dormitories, but rather had piled them on a nearby reading desk. Seamus's heap was somewhat larger than her own, but Corrine didn't mind.

"One from Loretta, one from my auntie, one from…" Corrine paused and collected herself. "One from my dad, one from my mum, and…oh, Seamus, you really didn't have to."

Seamus blushed furiously. "Well, I just – I mean – it's not really much of anything, really, I don't think you'll like it anyway…"

"I'm sure I'll love it," Corrine protested firmly. "I feel guilty, though, I don't have anything for you. Not like I could go skip off to Hogsmeade and buy anything, and there's nothing of mine that you want."

"Are you sure?" Seamus said quietly, so quietly that Corrine was not entirely sure she'd heard it. Her unromantic heart defiantly skipped a beat anyway. In the awkward hesitation that followed –how often this seemed to happen with them in the past week – an idea germinated and took root in her mind. It would be so easy, and a good Christmas present for both of them…

"Well, are you going to open them?"

Corrine blinked confusedly for a moment, then recovered. "Oh, right. Let's see, then."

The gifts from Loretta and her aunt, prosaic and predictable, were nonetheless welcome in their own way. Corrine had been running low on quills; and what budding Transfigurations expert wouldn't want the complete philosophy of a Transfigurations expert?

The gift from her mother was a little more touching: a set of robes in the exact shade of her outgrown Yule Ball outfit, a silvery color that her father said made her look like a fallen angel…

Corrine sniffed once, then set them aside and picked up the gift from her father. Seamus said nothing, only watched in concern.

She caught his gaze and twisted her mouth into a mockery of a smile. "Here goes nothing," she whispered, and tore the paper.

A flat rectangle of silver peeked out. Corrine opened it fully. For a moment, she could do nothing but try to breathe.

It was a picture – not just a picture, but their picture – the last picture of them as a real, happy family. Corrine sat at her father's feet, leaning against his leg, while her mother peered over her husband's shoulder, arms thrown around his neck in happy, careless abandon. The words around the silver frame read "Family," in a plethora of different scripts.

Corrine buried her face in her hands, surrendering to quiet tears that trickled through her fingers and pooled to form hot puddles in her palms. A light touch on her shoulder reminded her of Seamus's presence.

"You're all right?" he murmured gently in her ear when she took her hands away.

She inhaled deeply, shuddering. "I'm fine. Open yours now."

The line of concern between his brows deepened even further with added worry. "Cori — "

"Seamus." She stopped him. "Let's just…keep going." Her smile was shaky but corporeal. "That's what Gryffindors do, right? We keep going in the face of danger…we are not afraid to admit our fear, but instead of hiding behind it, we do something about it…"

Seamus nodded slowly. "Right. That we do." With a deep sigh and another long look, he picked up a box and began shredding the paper.

She didn't really pay attention to the gifts themselves, only watched blankly and laughed mechanically when he did so. The notion of previous moments was growing, spreading its branches and coming into full being.

There would be no going back. She knew that and accepted it. She was taking a chance, a very large risk to her ego alone, but a risk all the same. After all, it had only been about a week.

No. No cold feet. Seamus had told her that she was strong by nature. This was a chance, albeit small, to prove her bravery.

Seamus chucked the last present aside. "That's enough of that. What say we go down for — ?"

"Wait," she interrupted him gently. "I forgot. I do have something for you."

Seamus merely looked at her obliquely, eyes narrowed with bewilderment. He made no motion to speak or stand.

Corrine took a deep breath, then slowly reached across the desk, never taking her eyes off of Seamus, only groping blindly with one hand for what she knew was there. Her hand met leafy resistance. She clutched her prize and offered it to Seamus.

He accepted it blankly, turning the leathery green leaves with their waxy white berries over and over in his fingers. Finally, he opened his mouth and produced a very undignified sound that was probably supposed to be a word but couldn't quite make it.

Corrine wrung her hands nervously only once, then stopped. Why was she waiting for any reaction from him? The ball was in her court; indeed, it had never gone anywhere near his.

Edging forward until they were knee to knee, Corrine started to lean forward, thanking her lucky stars that she'd thought to offer around mints in the course of opening presents.

His face was so close…his lips…

On hers in a gentle touch, lighter than a dove's sigh, softer and sweeter than a warm bed at the end of a long winter's day. Slight pressure, breathing in the clean boyish scent of him, feeling the slight chafe of his chapped lips under her quivering ones.

Just when Corrine began to fear that she'd taken a wrong step, he reacted, breaking the kiss only to gasp in shock and then pull her back for another embrace, cradling her head in his hands and smoothing her hair under his fingers.

The power of mistletoe…

Seconds – minutes – days later, they mutually managed to disengage their mouths, but stayed close together, foreheads touching, noses but a butterfly's wing apart.

"You can't understand — you — I love you, Cori," Seamus whispered raggedly. "I really, really do. Since the end of fourth year."

Cori smiled crookedly, uncommonly happy, despite the news of her father. "I win, then. Since second year or so, I've fancied you outrageously."

Seamus grinned, bashful but apparently pleased. "Funny how this all works out," unconsciously echoing his words from the week previous, when they'd first talked in the library. "Why didn't you ever say anything?"

Corrine arched an eyebrow. "Why didn't you ever say anything to me?"

Seamus grinned, now unabashed. "Fair enough. I'll admit it, there's a bit of a cowardly streak in even the truest Gryffindor. And the Sorting Hat did want to put me in Hufflepuff." He shrugged. "The fear that you might laugh in my face, I suppose. I thought I could stand anything and everything but that. Turns out I was wrong." His face took on that drawn, melancholy expression it wore when he was thinking about his parents.

Corrine squeezed his hand sympathetically, causing him to look up and grin. "You're a miracle, Cori," he murmured. "This is what I love about you. Even though you have just as much to be upset about, you're comforting me. I feel like a rude arse now," he added reflectively.

Shaking her head slightly, Corrine said, "It's nothing. Besides…you've lost both your parents. I still have one left. And you. I have you."

"We have each other," Seamus reiterated. He squinted at his watch. "And I don't know about you, but I'm feeling hungry myself. What say we head down for breakfast?"

Corrine smiled. "Perfect."

They stood. She moved to leave, but Seamus caught her around the waist first and kissed her again, easing his mouth over her own. Corrine felt her knees slowly melt with the absolute joy of it.

It took them awhile to permanently separate, as they kept returning for just one more kiss. When they finally did so, Seamus smiled down at her and said, "You know, Cori, you're the only girl I know who could possibly think of giving mistletoe for a present after hearing such terrible news as you did."

Slightly chagrined, Corrine dropped her gaze to her feet, grinning foolishly. "You know me, Seamus. I set the sadness aside and try to focus on something happier. I'll be upset later."

He regarded her, the laughter absent from his hazel eyes. "Cori, I worry that one day the weight of your forgotten worries will crush you."

She waved it off. "Later, Seamus. Come on, let's go."

They trotted down to the Great Hall, inexplicably finding their hands twined together. Corrine caught her reflection in a shining, festive suit of armor and realized that she was smiling like a Cheshire Cat.

"That's the Christmas spirit, dearie," a portrait on the wall commented. "But oh, my, we don't need mistletoe, do we?" The woman in the picture winked suggestively.

Seamus scowled deeply. "Bugger off."

A warm welcome was not precisely what they received at the Great Hall, but rather a concerned one.

"Oh, Miss Wayward, there you are," McGonagall said, striding up to them. "I'm terribly sorry to hear of your loss, what a tragic event."

Corrine shrugged, shoulders hunched and lips pursed, clear signs that she didn't want to talk about it. "It's all right, Professor, but it's nice of you to say so."

"Yes, well, your mother has sent a letter, saying that the funeral is tomorrow. We'll send you off tonight, if that meets your agreement."

"It'll have to," Corrine replied grimly, already mentally preparing herself for this trial.

Seamus stepped forward, almost protectively, and folded his arms. "I'm going with her."

McGonagall stared at him. "I'm afraid that's not possible, Mr. Finnigan."

"It'll have to be," he all but growled, clenching his fists. Corrine placed a hand on his arm; his temper subsided a bit, but Corrine could still sense his inner seething.

McGonagall seemed to realize that neither would budge an inch, and gave up with a sigh. "I shall see what I can do. He'll be welcome?" she asked Corrine.

Her chin shot up. "Of course."

McGonagall laid a brief hand on Corrine's shoulder, then disappeared.

The two watched her leave. "Ill tidings," said Seamus, echoing a phrase from a book they'd both read.

"Bring naught but trouble," Corrine finished the quote. "What now?"

"Eat breakfast," Seamus finished promptly.

Corrine sighed. "And then…let's enjoy the rest of our Christmas as best we can. Let tomorrow bring what it will."

Seamus smiled softly. "Deal."

And so they did.


Epilogue


The chill December wind whipped her black dress around her knees. I watched her with my hands clasped in front of me, stealing glances out of the corner of my eye. As she must have done at my parents' funeral. Beyond her, Mrs. Wayward, now a widow, sobbed and wailed, supported only by her equally distraught sister.

Pearly tears slipped down Corrine's cheeks. I wanted to wipe them away, but restrained myself.

As the casket was lowered into the ground, I heard the little catch in her breath, and looked over her in full. She was staring at the ground, shock and horror battling for supremacy on her face, the tears coming in quick gasps.

I knew it would happen: all her emotions, pent up over the years, were pouring out of her in a rush at the catalyst. There was only one thing to do. I stepped over and took her into my arms.

"Be a Gryffindor, Cori. Be brave and cry."


~*~
Carry on, you will always remember
Carry on, nothing equals the splendor
Now your life's no longer empty
Surely heaven waits for you…