Hogwarts trembled around them, the ancient stones quivering as distant explosions thundered in the night. The Great Hall, once a place of warmth and feasts and laughter, was now a war room. The long tables had been pushed against the walls, benches overturned, and groups of students, professors, and members of the Order hurried about, gathering supplies, reinforcing defenses, readying themselves for the fight of their lives.
Dean Thomas stood near the entrance, gripping the borrowed wand so tightly his knuckles ached. His heart pounded against his ribs, heavy with adrenaline, fear, and something else—something that had been gnawing at him for far too long.
He couldn’t stop looking at Seamus.
Across the room, Seamus Finnigan was a blur of frantic energy, stuffing his pockets with explosives, talking quickly to Neville and Lee Jordan, his face alight with a reckless determination. His hair was a mess, his uniform wrinkled and torn, dirt smudged across his sharp cheekbones. He looked like chaos itself, alive and wild.
And Merlin, if Dean wasn’t completely gone for him.
It had been there for years—this thing between them. Or maybe just inside him. He didn’t know when it started. Maybe back in third year when Seamus had taken the blame for sneaking in sweets so Dean wouldn’t get detention. Maybe during the sleepless nights in their sixth year, when they whispered about their fears in hushed voices, Seamus’s presence the only thing that made the world feel bearable. Maybe it was all the times they stood shoulder to shoulder, always partners, always them.
Or maybe it had been there from the very start, buried under years of laughter and late-night chats and easy touches that lingered a little too long.
And now—now there was no time left.
Dean didn’t think. He couldn’t think. Before he could second-guess himself, he strode across the room, ignoring the pounding of his pulse, ignoring the war preparing to swallow them whole.
He grabbed Seamus’s wrist. “Come with me.”
Seamus blinked, startled, but let himself be pulled away without protest. Dean dragged him past the scrambling students, past the murmurs of people watching, and into a shadowed alcove near the entrance.
“What—?” Seamus started, breathless. “Dean, what the hell—?”
Dean turned, his chest heaving. He looked at Seamus—really looked at him.
He memorized everything. The way Seamus’s lips were slightly parted, the way his freckles stood out stark against the dirt on his face, the way his brows furrowed in confusion.
“I need to say something,” Dean said, his voice rough.
Seamus’s expression flickered. The sounds of battle preparations still rumbled behind them, but here, in this tiny alcove, it was just them.
“Dean…” Seamus said, softer now.
Dean exhaled shakily. “I can’t—I can’t go into this not saying it. I don’t know what’s going to happen tonight. I don’t know if we’re both walking out of this.” His throat felt tight. “But if something happens to you, and I never told you—” He cut himself off, his breath unsteady. “I’ve been a coward. A proper idiot. Because I should have said this a long time ago.”
Seamus’s lips parted slightly, his blue eyes searching Dean’s.
“Said what?” he murmured.
Dean swallowed hard. “That I—I love you.” The words came out in a rush, like he’d been holding them in for years. Because maybe he had. “I love you, and I have for—I don’t even know how long. And I should’ve told you before. I should’ve—” He let out a sharp breath. “I just—I need you to know.”
Seamus stared at him. For a horrible, terrifying second, Dean thought he’d misread everything.
Then Seamus let out a breathless, incredulous laugh. “You absolute gobshite.”
And before Dean could react, Seamus grabbed him by the collar and kissed him.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was desperate.
Dean made a noise of surprise against his lips before melting into it, his hands flying to Seamus’s waist, gripping tight like he never wanted to let go. Seamus’s fingers tangled in his shirt, pulling him closer, closer, until there was no space left between them.
Dean could feel everything—the heat of Seamus’s body pressed against his, the way he shuddered when Dean’s hands slid up his back, the way his lips were just as warm and demanding as Dean had imagined a thousand times over. Seamus kissed him like he was making up for lost time, like he was afraid this might be the first and last time they ever got the chance.
Dean didn’t want it to be.
His heart was racing, his head spinning. The world outside was crumbling, but here, in this moment, nothing else mattered.
Seamus broke away just long enough to whisper against his lips, “Took you long enough.”
Dean let out a shaky laugh. “I—”
Another explosion shook the castle, closer this time. The spell was broken.
Seamus pulled back, just slightly, their faces still close enough that Dean could see every fleck of color in his eyes. “We should—”
“I know,” Dean breathed.
Seamus exhaled and pressed his forehead against Dean’s for the briefest moment. “Please, please be safe,” Dean whispered, his lips brushing against Seamus’s as he spoke.
Seamus pulled back, grinning despite the weight in his gaze. “I assure you,” he murmured, voice low, steady, “that will not be the last of that.”
And then they ran.
. . .
The sun was beginning to rise, streaking the sky with pink and orange. The battle was over.
Dean could barely process it. He stood among the wreckage, surrounded by the sounds of people weeping, laughing, grieving. The Great Hall was filled with survivors and the lost, with pain and relief and exhaustion.
But all he could think was—
Where is he?
His stomach twisted. They had been separated in the chaos, and Dean had fought with everything in him, desperate to survive, desperate to see Seamus again. And now—now it was over, but Seamus was nowhere.
“Seamus,” he muttered under his breath, turning in frantic circles. Then, louder, “Seamus!” Panic clawed at his chest.
Then—
There.
Seamus stood near the ruined staircase, dirt-smudged, bruised, alive.
Dean ran.
Seamus barely had time to react before Dean crashed into him, arms wrapped around his waist, lifting him off the ground.
Their lips met in a kiss that was everything.
It was raw and fierce and real, filled with relief and desperation and every unsaid word. Seamus made a startled sound against his lips before kissing back just as fiercely, his hands gripping Dean’s shoulders, his entire body pressing closer, like he never wanted to let go.
Around them, people paused. Even those who mourned, who ached, felt a flicker of warmth at the sight—because when there was so much loss, so much pain, someone deserved a happy ending.
And for once, it was theirs.