Somewhere along the line, Seamus Finnegan had begun to love Lavender Brown.
She reminded him of what it was to be young; of an English summer spent in sun flooded cottages listening to the Quidditch, of the Muggle music she was so fond of. She reminded him of neon colored copies of Witch Weekly strewn on the floor, of mascara wands and pink lipstick. She reminded him of tentative kisses and the softness of her hand against his. Lavender reminded him of a setting sky, a myriad of colors, bleeding into one another with their beauty.
And then there was the scar, pink and jagged, risen from her skin like the Braille of warfare, floating in a body of milky-white. It reminded Seamus of the crack of a whip, the feeling of blood and dirt caked together as one, of death but mostly of strength. But still, she would dress only by the moonlight or a shaded corner, her back facing him because it was less painful than imperfection.
They all had scars, Seamus mused. Some were deeper than others.
Lavender had never been some great beauty, just a pretty girl with cascading blonde hair and an entrancing smile. He had only known her as his sometimes-date, as Ron’s girlfriend, as Parvati’s best friend. Yet somewhere along the line, she had become his and he had become hers.
Seamus was not a hero in any sense of the word, but he was earnest and brave and sometimes reckless so when he had snuck his hand to the smooth plane of her inner-thigh, Lavender did not stop him.
After it was done and she rest beside him, he had taken the time to count the freckles on the bridge of her nose (15) and the eyelashes on her left eye (77), to memorize the geography of her curves, to trace her scar with his lips. He wanted to walk across her tongue, live in the innermost corners of her smile. And as he laid there beside he realized what it was to love without condition or expectation.
Neither of them were introspective or wise but they were strong, together more than apart, and that was enough. Her hand in his was enough, the collective sum of the experiences they had shared together was enough. He wanted to take care of her, simply put, and it was enough for them both, not because she needed taking care of, but because she wanted it.
Lavender was always fluid, ever-changing like waves upon a shore. She was the ebb and flow, but Seamus was always the sand that she burst upon. He had witnessed it all; the precarious whirlwind of a teenage girl, the rickety teeter of her globe on its axis. He had witnessed her love others and then love him. He had witnessed her from near death and back and never once faltered.
While her stars were always moving, his were always steadily aligned, but in the gigantic celestial mass that was life, their stars had inexplicably circled each other one way or another.
He was Seamus and she was Lavender. Together they were in love and maybe it was meant to be.
A/N: Hi all! I've been experiencing a minor bout of writer's block for the past week or so and I was basically getting my wits about myself, but I've been meaning to try and do some more descriptive, poetic writing, and I figured if I was trying to get back into the swing of things, this would be a good way to do so. Tell me what you think of it in a review!
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