Rain by Iana Moon

Summary: A look in what makes Seamus, Seamus, as the war progresses. Seamus/Fleur.

A response to the 'fic request' survey I created over at LJ. www. livejournal. com/ diana moon /5636 .html - just take out the spaces. This fic is for celticroisin, who responded to my survey.

(Fic had to include: PG; lake; wartime; meatballs; scarf; anger; punching something; pen; beauty (like); death (hate); silver rope chain necklace.)

Warnings! mentions of suicidal intent, may completely change your view of Seamus Finnegin.... forever.

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It was raining. The miniscule droplets falling like tears into the lakes surface, where they vanished from sight, lost in the large pool of emotion and heartache, even the ripples fading away to nothingness. Resting his head against the cool stone of the glass, he watched the rain fall with a kind of abject fascination.

It still hurt.

To see that lake, laid out before him as a stark reminder of those days. Of the light and laughter and sunlight and happiness that had dogged his path.

That was over now.

The thunderous stormclouds outside mirrored the rising tensions inside, the watched pot not quite boiling. Not yet at least, but it was close. Very close.

He sighed.

It had been raining on the day she died. The light and laughter leaving the sky even as it faded from her eyes and left his life and heart. Melodramatic, maybe, but the heart did not concern itself with such titles or frivolities. It merely felt. And wept.

There was no more happiness.

At least not for him.

He remembered their first kiss, awkward and fumbling and sweet. The brief clash of lips and teeth as they strove to find a rythym, that perfect harmony which they had later perfected into a dance of love and passion and soft caresses.

She had tasted of meatballs and butterbeer and bright sunny days.

He'd kissed her, once, after she fell, but her lips were cold and limp and lifeless beneath his own. An unwilling partner in the dance which had become second nature to them.

And then he'd wept.

Not tears. Never tears. There had never been time. But his heart had wept, breaking open and weeping tears of blood as the life drained out of him, to follow after her.

He wrapped his scarf tighter around his neck, the scent of lilac and daises and stolen kisses drifting up from the woolen bond. Closing his eyes momentarily, he drank it in, her face springing to his mind's eye, happy and carefree.

Never again.

Suppressing a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold or rain, he traced his eyes over his reflection in the glass. Noting the pen that rested comfortably where she used to kiss behind his ear, the way his hair was slightly tousled, the way it always looked after she'd just run her hand through it.

And if he tried, really tried, he could imagine that she wasn't gone. That she was still here. And for a moment he'd believe it.

But then he'd catch sight of the silver necklace partly concealed beneath his robes and scarf, and his heart would sieze within his chest, in defiance of the reality of life and love and loss.

The tiny links were shaped to create a fine silver rope. It'll bind us together, always, he'd said, breath ghosting across her face, eyes surveying her beauty and knowing that nothing could compare, and yet that was not why he loved her.

For all her outer beauty, it was her love and laughter and smiles that he loved the most.

I'll never leave you, she'd promised. And then his fist would clench by his side, the overwhelming desire to hit something, -anything-, rising up within him, choking him, until his eyes were sharp and stinging, the salty taste of tears on his tongue.

And he'd clutch at the chain around his neck, struggling to break it in his anger but never quite able to, because it was his last link to her.

The only tangible memory he had kept, removed from her lifeless body as she lay on the cold ground and pink lips faded to blue, blonde hair turning brown in the rain and mud. It seemed not even Veela beauty could sway the Dark Lord.

There were times he wanted to follow her. To give it all up. To take the chain; unbreakable, the jeweler had said; and hang himself with it, so that he could touch and taste and simply hold her once more. But they needed someone here, someone to make light of situations, to flirt and smile and laugh, and pretend that everything was ok, so that they didn't lose heart, even if they never knew that she had taken his with her.

Besides, he could wait.