It was the sixth time that month Seamus had blown something up.
Sixth. Time.
And this time, it wasn’t a cauldron or a self-inking quill—it was the bloody corner of the Gryffindor common room. A soft pop had preceded a violent crack, and now there was smoke curling up toward the high ceiling, a burn mark scarring the rug, and several very startled first-years blinking through the haze.
Seamus stood frozen in the middle of it, wand still outstretched, horror painted all over his face.
“I didn’t mean to,” he choked out, throat dry. “I—I swear, I just tried the ink-siphon charm. It worked last night, it—”
“You blew up the coffee table,” Ron groaned from somewhere near the couch. “How do you blow up a coffee table?”
“I don’t know!”
Hermione was already checking on the nearest younger student, whispering soothingly and dabbing a cut on the boy’s cheek with the corner of her robe. Seamus’s stomach sank. He had never meant for anyone to get hurt. He just wanted to clean ink off his notes. That was all.
And he’d ruined everything. Again.
People were coughing. There was a weird buzzing in his ears. Someone—maybe Ginny—was opening the windows, and someone else muttered a smoke-clearing spell. But it all blurred around him.
His hands were shaking. Stupid, reckless, useless— he thought. The words bounced around his skull like Bludgers.
“I didn’t mean to,” he said again, barely a whisper now. His wand lowered, almost slipping from his fingers.
“Seamus.”
He flinched at the voice—but it wasn’t angry. It was gentle.
Harry stood at the edge of the damage, his eyes locked on Seamus’s like he understood something no one else quite did. Like he saw the panic. The self-loathing. The fear of being too much.
“You didn’t mean to,” Harry repeated, stepping into the wreckage. “We know.”
“I could’ve hurt someone.”
“You didn’t.”
“I almost did—”
“And you stopped as soon as you realized something was wrong. You didn’t run. You didn’t hide. You stood your ground.”
Harry’s voice wasn’t loud. It wasn’t commanding. But it cut through the ringing in Seamus’s ears like a lifeline.
Everyone else was moving around them—Ron inspecting the broken table, Dean opening windows wider, Ginny waving her wand at the smoldering cushion. But Harry… Harry stood still. Grounded. Like he wasn’t scared of the mess.
Like he wasn’t scared of Seamus.
“I screw everything up,” Seamus whispered.
Harry crouched beside the burn mark. He looked at it for a moment, then back up at him.
“You’re not a screw-up.”
Seamus wanted to believe him. But the guilt curled tight in his chest like a dragon. “You don’t have to say that.”
“I’m not,” Harry said. “Trust me—I know what it’s like to think everything you touch breaks.”
That gave Seamus pause.
Harry didn’t say anything else. He just… looked at him. Really looked. And Seamus understood.
Of course Harry got it. This boy, who the entire wizarding world placed on a pedestal, who people stared at like a hero and a weapon and a symbol. Who barely let anyone in. Of course he would know what it felt like to think everything you touched could hurt someone. Of course he’d recognize that hollow feeling before the shame swallowed you whole.
“You didn’t hurt anyone,” Harry said again, more gently now. “And even if something had gone wrong… we’d still have your back.”
Seamus sat down hard on the couch, shoulders hunched. “I really don’t deserve you lot.”
Ron dropped beside him and huffed. “You absolutely don’t. But we’re yours anyway.”
Seamus laughed weakly. “Thanks, Dad.”
“You wish I was your dad. I’d ground you for a month.”
“That’s so comforting.”
“I’m just saying.”
Hermione crossed the room and perched on the arm of the couch. Her expression was stern but not unkind. “You’ve got to stop trying charms from the back of Advanced Applications Without Supervision. That book is banned in three countries.”
Seamus groaned and hid his face in his hands. “It’s not my fault the fun spells are all dangerous.”
Ginny tossed a charmed rag at his head. “Clean-up, pyromaniac.”
Dean wandered over and offered him a glass of water. “You good?”
Seamus took the glass, gulped it down, and muttered, “Getting there.”
“Good.” Dean grinned. “Because I’m not covering for you when McGonagall sees the rug.”
The cleaning took an hour. Ginny scrubbed. Hermione repaired furniture. Neville brought one of his weird plants to absorb smoke (it worked, but also released a sound suspiciously like a squeaky fart every time someone walked past). The chaos gradually melted into quiet teamwork.
And through it all, Harry stayed close—not hovering, not watching, just being. Every now and then, Seamus caught his eye and got that same quiet nod. That subtle reassurance.
When everything was tidy again, and most of the Tower had gone to bed, Seamus lingered by the fireplace, legs pulled up to his chest.
Harry sat beside him.
The room was calm now. Quiet. Only the crackle of the fire and the low murmur of Ginny and Ron arguing over homework at the table.
“I hate that I feel like this,” Seamus said softly. “Like one more mistake and people are going to give up on me.”
Harry didn’t respond right away. When he did, his voice was low.
“I used to think that too. That if I wasn’t perfect, they’d all leave.”
Seamus glanced sideways. “They didn’t, though.”
“No.” Harry offered a small smile. “They never do.”
There was a long silence between them.
“You really believe that?” Seamus asked.
Harry’s gaze softened. “I have to. Or I’ll start believing the wrong things.”
That hit harder than Seamus expected.
He swallowed, throat tight. “Thanks for… not yelling. Or treating me like I’m dangerous.”
Harry tilted his head. “You’re not dangerous.”
“I blow things up a lot.”
“Yeah,” Harry said, “but you’re still you. You’re still kind. You’re still trying. That counts more than you think.”
Seamus let out a shaky breath. The fire popped.
Maybe… maybe this was what family felt like. Not blood. Not names. Just this—people who saw your worst moment and didn’t run. Who stayed. Who looked you in the eye and said, You’re still one of us.
He wasn’t a danger. He wasn’t a screw-up. He was a Gryffindor. And his family was right here.