The Gryffindor common room was, in short, a war zone.
Dean Thomas stood in the doorway, holding a packet of biscuits and surveying the damage with the grim resolve of a man who knew he wasn’t getting out of this clean. A chessboard had exploded in the corner (courtesy of Ron and a very confident third-year), first-years were using the sofa as a jungle gym, and Seamus—Merlin help them all—was waving his wand like he was auditioning for a fireworks show.
"Dean!" Seamus called, grinning wildly. "Bet I can charm this teacup to explode in six different colors—"
"Nope," Dean said, walking over and smoothly plucking the wand from Seamus's hand. "This is how we lose our common room privileges. Again."
"But it’s for science," Seamus whined.
"That's what you said before you turned Trevor the Toad bright pink and sent him flying out a window."
Trevor, resting peacefully in Neville’s lap, blinked up at Dean as if to say thank you.
Dean sighed and dropped onto the sofa, tossing biscuits onto the table like a dealer at a poker game. It was his quiet bribe to settle the chaos. “Alright. Biscuits if you promise not to set anything on fire for the next hour.”
Hermione, sitting at a table nearby with her books, gave him a look that was equal parts gratitude and sympathy. “You're a miracle worker, Dean.”
He gave her a lazy grin. “Nah. Just learned how to survive a shared dorm with Seamus Finnegan.”
“Oi,” Seamus muttered, snatching a biscuit and immediately sharing it with Neville, who looked touched but also exhausted.
Ron was somewhere behind him coaching a pair of second-years on how not to throw a Quaffle indoors. Harry had crashed early, slumped on one of the armchairs closest to the fire. His glasses were askew and he had a blanket haphazardly thrown over him, courtesy of Ginny before she’d gone up to bed.
Dean glanced over at him, a small crease forming in his brow. It wasn’t a peaceful kind of sleep—it was the knocked-out exhaustion of someone who had spent too much of the day worrying. Again.
He didn’t say anything. Just quietly adjusted the blanket, careful not to wake him, then gently fixed the glasses so they wouldn’t dig into Harry’s cheek.
“Cheers,” Ron said quietly, appearing at his side. “He’s been off today.”
Dean nodded. “Saw that. He’s got a lot on his shoulders.”
Ron looked like he wanted to say more but didn’t, instead turning back toward the second-years. Dean watched him go, then turned his attention back to the common room.
Neville was sitting cross-legged on the rug, carefully repotting a plant that looked like it might bite someone if startled. Seamus was giving him advice that made Dean wince.
“That’s not devil’s snare, mate,” Dean called. “That’s just overly dramatic seaweed. Let him work.”
Seamus laughed and flopped onto the couch beside Dean, bumping his shoulder. “How do you know all this stuff?”
“I listen,” Dean said, voice light. “Unlike some people.”
It was easy to be the quiet one. The one who caught things others missed. Harry’s slumped shoulders. Hermione’s too-tight grip on her quill when she was stressed. Neville’s face lighting up when someone remembered his plant facts. Even Seamus, chaos and all, carried more weight than he let on.
Dean didn’t say anything most days. He just… showed up. With snacks, with calm, with quiet support.
And they let him. Somehow, somewhere along the line, he’d been absorbed into the Gryffindor family structure—like he’d been adopted without ceremony. Just a look here, a nudge there, a “Dean, can you” or a “Dean, help”—and that was that.
He didn’t mind. Not really. It felt good. Safe.
One of the younger students came over, a second-year with tears in her eyes and a broken wand.
“Dean,” she sniffled, holding it out. “It… it snapped.”
He didn’t panic. Just gently took the pieces, guided her to sit down, and offered her a biscuit. “Alright. Not the end of the world. I’ll help you talk to McGonagall tomorrow. We’ll figure it out.”
“Promise?”
“Cross my heart,” he said.
Seamus blinked at him. “When did you turn into a one-man Hogwarts help desk?”
Dean shrugged. “You lot needed someone.”
A pause.
Then Seamus said, quieter, “You’re good at it.”
Dean felt his chest warm, and he smiled, bumping shoulders again. “So are you. When you’re not blowing things up.”
“Oi.”
The common room was finally settling. Quiet snoring from Harry. Neville reading something with the plant tucked into his hoodie. Hermione closing her books, eyes bleary. Ron helping a yawning third-year clean up chess pieces.
Dean stood, stretched, and gathered the empty mugs. Seamus started to help without being asked. Hermione muttered a thank you and headed to bed. Neville looked up and smiled softly.
“Night, Dean.”
“’Night, Nev.”
And just as he was about to follow, he looked back one last time—at the common room that felt less like a place and more like a beating heart, full of mismatched but loyal pieces.
Yeah. He wasn’t just part of this family.
He was family.
And he wouldn’t trade it for anything.