The Confession
The office was quiet, a soft hum of lingering magic hanging in the air, the kind of stillness that always settled after a long day of work. The light filtering in from the late afternoon sun washed over the room, casting the walls in warm, golden hues that contrasted with the sterile, meticulous nature of the space. Hermione sat at her desk, her brow furrowed in concentration as she meticulously jotted down notes in her leather-bound journal. The pages, filled with careful annotations and magical formulas, were a reflection of her organized, analytical mind—a place where everything had its order, its structure.
Scattered across the table in front of her were enchanted schematics and delicate rune etchings, each one more complex than the last, along with a half-empty cup of tea that had long since turned cold. The aroma of it, once soothing, had now faded into the background of the room, replaced by the faint but persistent electric buzz of residual spellwork. The intensity of the day had demanded all of Hermione’s attention, her sharp, methodical precision pairing with Seamus’s instinctive, impulsive approach to unravel the complexities they’d been tasked with.
But now, as the hours had stretched on, there was a quiet weight in the air between them. The hum of the office seemed to grow heavier, more intimate, as if the room itself had taken on an energy all its own. Hermione hadn’t spoken much since they’d wrapped up the project. Her mind had been preoccupied—not just with the work, but with something else entirely. Something that had been nudging at the back of her thoughts all afternoon, growing more persistent with every passing minute.
Seamus stood by the doorframe, arms loosely folded, his figure leaning slightly as he studied her. There was a quiet tension about him now—one that she hadn't seen before. His usual boyish grin, the one that always seemed to come effortlessly, was absent. Instead, his expression was thoughtful, almost hesitant. The light from the sconces flickered against his features, casting shadows that made his face look older, more serious, in the soft glow. It was a stark contrast to the playful energy he usually carried.
Hermione felt his presence before she saw him—there was something in the air between them, something unspoken, pulling her attention toward him. It made her heart beat a little faster than usual, and she couldn’t quite shake the feeling that something had shifted. She could feel his eyes on her, and it made her pause, the quill hovering in the air just above the journal. It wasn’t just the quiet that had changed—it was him. The way he was looking at her. The weight of it hung in the air.
“Yeah,” Seamus replied, his voice low and uncharacteristically soft. “Guess I am.”
Hermione blinked at him, surprised by the tone. It was unseated, almost contemplative, not at all the teasing, casual banter she was used to from him. She found herself pausing, the quill hovering above her parchment, no longer able to focus on the intricate diagrams in front of her. Something about the way he said it—almost as if he wasn’t quite aware of his own thoughts—struck her in a way she couldn’t quite define.
Seamus stepped further into the room, his movements slow and deliberate, as though he was carefully considering every step before taking it. It was the opposite of his usual energy, his usual quick and confident approach. This was different—he was taking his time, his gaze focused on the floor as if unsure of his next words, and it unsettled her.
“You ever get the feeling,” he began, his voice lower now, almost hushed, as if speaking too loudly would break whatever quiet spell had fallen over them, “that things are happening exactly the way they’re supposed to? Even if they don’t make sense at first?”
Hermione felt a knot tighten in her chest. She studied him, her mind racing, trying to process the unexpected turn in the conversation. Seamus was not one for deep, introspective moments. He was the one who cracked jokes during tense situations, always making light of things with that ever-present grin. But now? He was standing before her, serious, his brows furrowed as if he was wrestling with some internal conflict.
She tilted her head slightly, narrowing her eyes in thought. “I tend to trust logic over feelings,” she replied, her voice cautious, betraying none of the turmoil she was beginning to feel rise inside her. “Feelings are... tricky. They tend to cloud things. Logic is... easier.”
Seamus gave a short, dry laugh in response, but there was no humor behind it. It was hollow, almost resigned. “Yeah. I figured you’d say that.”
The silence stretched out for a moment, thick and heavy between them. Hermione wasn’t sure what to make of his response, or the way his eyes seemed to be searching for something in the air, something beyond the walls of the office. Was he trying to find the right words? Was he having some sort of crisis? Or was it something else entirely?
Hermione placed her quill down on the desk and shifted her body, turning fully toward him. The soft click of the quill’s nib against the parchment was the only sound in the room for a brief second. “What are you getting at?” she asked, her voice gentle but sharp with curiosity.
Seamus didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he looked around the room, as if making sure they were still alone, that no one could hear whatever it was he was about to say. It was a strange gesture—Seamus wasn’t the type to be secretive, nor was he one to hesitate when he had something to say. But now? There was something in the air, something that made the tension between them palpable.
He let out a slow, deep breath that seemed to carry with it weeks, maybe even months, of unspoken thoughts. His shoulders shifted, like a weight was being lifted, but it only seemed to make him heavier in some way. There was something undeniably serious in his posture now, a quiet earnestness that Hermione had never seen from him before. It was as if the man she’d known for so long had stepped aside for someone else—someone more vulnerable.
“I know I’m not the most...” Seamus started, his words trailing off as if he were groping for the right phrase, something he could string together in a way that didn’t sound like the usual Seamus Finnigan rambling. He glanced at the floor, taking a moment to steady himself before looking back up at Hermione. She could tell there was a shift in him, something more serious than the usual offhand comments.
“I know I fly by the seat of my pants, and you—well, you practically are the seat. Sturdy, reliable, annoyingly perfect—”
“Seamus,” Hermione warned, her eyes narrowing, a spark of irritation flashing briefly in them as she leaned forward, her hand instinctively resting on the edge of her desk. His teasing tone was still there, but it didn’t feel light-hearted this time. It felt almost like he was apologizing, or maybe preparing himself for something harder to say.
“Right, sorry.” He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, then let his hand drop to his side. He seemed to be wrestling with his thoughts, trying to sort through them before he let them slip out. “I’m just saying... I know I joke a lot. And maybe I don’t always say things the way I should. But I need to say this. Properly. Just once.”
Hermione’s stomach tightened, a mixture of confusion and anxiety knotting her insides. She knew Seamus—his easy-going charm, his impulsiveness, the reckless way he threw himself into everything, whether it was a spell or a joke. But this? This wasn’t him. This wasn’t the Seamus she had come to rely on as a partner in their work. This was different. And her heart, which had always been steadfast and grounded, now found itself suspended in a moment of uncertainty.
“I don’t just think you’re lucky for me, Hermione,” Seamus said, his voice softening as he took a step closer to her. There was something raw in his eyes now, something she wasn’t prepared for. “I think you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
Her breath caught in her throat, her heart thudding in a way she didn’t recognize. Her mind raced, desperately searching for a way to deflect, a way to put distance between herself and the vulnerability he was exposing. But his gaze didn’t waver. He wasn’t backing down. And that’s when she realized, with a strange clarity, that this was real. This wasn’t one of his jokes. This wasn’t a passing whim.
Seamus’s voice dropped to a quiet, almost reverent tone as he continued, “You keep me grounded. You keep me focused. You’ve saved me more times than I care to admit—not just from magical disasters, but from myself. And somewhere along the way... I stopped seeing you as just my colleague. You became something more. You became... the reason I actually care whether I get it right.”
The words settled into the space between them, hanging in the air like a spell that had already begun to take effect. Hermione felt her chest tighten, her pulse quickening. She couldn’t look away. The way Seamus was looking at her, so open, so unguarded, made her feel exposed in a way that she wasn’t used to. She had always been the one with the words, with the logic, the calm and collected nature that had served her so well in her work. But now? Now she was the one on the receiving end of something she hadn’t anticipated.
Her mind raced, scrambling for something to say, anything to break the tension, to throw this moment back into the realm of safety where she could regain control. She hated this feeling—the feeling that she might be losing herself to something far messier than anything she’d ever tried to make sense of. But for all her usual quick responses, she found herself utterly speechless, caught between wanting to protect her carefully structured world and the undeniable pull of Seamus’s words.
She wanted to laugh it off, to make light of it. She could almost hear herself doing it—saying something witty, something dismissive to defuse the moment. It was the Hermione Granger way, after all. But something held her back, something deep inside that refused to let her escape into the safety of her usual tactics.
So, instead, she did what she’d learned to do when things threatened to unravel, when emotions threatened to surface. She deflected.
A small, strained laugh escaped her lips as she picked up her quill again, focusing on the motion of it in her hand. “You’re being dramatic,” she said, her voice not as steady as she intended, but trying to mask the sudden weight in her chest.
Seamus’s expression softened, but there was no humor in his eyes. Only quiet sincerity. “I’m being honest.”
Her heart fluttered painfully in her chest, but she pressed on, avoiding his gaze. “You’re being you, Seamus. This is just another one of your spontaneous moments. You’ll feel differently tomorrow.”
He stood there, unmoving, staring at her for what felt like a long, long time. She couldn’t bring herself to look up at him. Instead, she stared down at the desk, pretending that the words she had just said were enough to make everything normal again. Pretending that this—whatever this was—didn’t matter.
After a long pause, Seamus finally nodded, his eyes tracing over her face one last time. “Maybe. But I needed you to know anyway.”
Hermione opened her mouth to respond, but no words came. Her throat was tight, constricting around all the things she hadn’t said, the feelings she hadn’t allowed herself to feel. The weight of Seamus’s confession was heavier than she ever expected, and yet, she wasn’t sure what to do with it. What was she supposed to say to something like this? Something that cut through all her defences with the sharpness of truth?
Seamus turned to leave, but as he reached the door, he paused, looking back over his shoulder at her one last time. The sadness in his eyes was subtle, but it was there. She could see it. “I don’t expect anything from you, Hermione. Really. I just—I couldn’t keep pretending it wasn’t true. So now you know.”
He gave her one final, fleeting glance—gentle, with that faint edge of sadness lingering just beneath the surface—and then he was gone.
Hermione sat frozen at her desk, staring at the now-empty doorway as though willing him to come back, to say something more, to make everything make sense. The room around her felt thick with unspoken words, with all the things she hadn’t been able to admit to herself. The air buzzed with the energy of what could be, what might have been. And beneath all that, beneath the logic and caution she’d wrapped herself in for so long, something stirred—a quiet, dangerous whisper that said she wasn’t as unaffected as she had tried to convince herself.
Her quill trembled slightly in her hand, and she couldn’t seem to bring herself to write another word. Her mind was too full, her thoughts too tangled. Something had changed between them, and no matter how hard she tried to deny it, she knew it was only a matter of time before she had to face it. The possibilities. The fear. The things she couldn’t quite name.
And for the first time in a long while, Hermione Granger didn’t have an answer for everything.