The Simp Arc Begins
Harry Potter was many things.
A Quidditch player. A Prefect. A future Healer. A reasonably competent wizard.
But a man with self-control?
Absolutely not.
It started with the bloody jumper.
It had been a cold morning, and Harry had thrown on his favorite, well-worn Gryffindor jumper, the one slightly oversized from too many washes.
And that should have been the end of it.
But no.
Seamus Finnigan, absolute menace to society, had other ideas.
They had been sitting in the common room, working on homework (or in Seamus’s case, pretending to work on homework), when Seamus suddenly narrowed his eyes at Harry’s jumper.
“Oi, Potter.”
Harry sighed, already exhausted. “What, Finnigan?”
Seamus grinned. “That’s a nice jumper.”
Harry blinked. “…Thanks?”
Seamus leaned back, stretching his arms. “Would look better on me, though.”
Harry snorted. “In your dreams.”
Seamus smirked.
Which, in hindsight, should have been a warning.
Because the next thing Harry knew—
Seamus had tugged the jumper straight over Harry’s head.
Harry yelled. “WHAT—?!”
Seamus, already pulling it over his own head, grinned.
“There,” he said, smug as hell. “Perfect fit.”
Harry sat there, stunned, hair a complete mess, wearing only his undershirt, while Seamus beamed at him like an absolute menace.
Hermione, across the room, lowered her book and smirked.
“Harry,” she said sweetly, “I think Seamus just stole your jumper.”
Harry scowled. “I am aware, Hermione.”
Seamus, meanwhile, was already rolling up the sleeves like he owned the damn thing.
“Yeah, this is mine now,” he announced cheerfully.
Harry glared. “No, it’s not.”
Seamus grinned wider. “Nah, love. It is.”
Harry’s brain short-circuited.
Because love.
Because Seamus Finnigan in his jumper.
Because he was so completely and utterly down bad for this absolute idiot.
Harry was screwed.
Because now he was noticing things.
Things like—
The way Seamus leaned into his space constantly, like it was natural.
The way his stupid freckles got darker when he spent too much time outside.
The way he absolutely refused to sit like a normal person, always draped over chairs, over couches, over Harry.
And worst of all—
The way he smiled when he was being a menace.
Which was always.
By the end of the day, Hermione was onto him.
She had watched every single one of Harry’s reactions to Seamus, and by dinner, she was smirking at him like she knew all his secrets.
Harry tried to ignore it.
Then Seamus sat down next to him at the Gryffindor table, bumped their shoulders together, stole half of Harry’s chips, and called him ‘love’ again.
Harry blushed furiously.
Hermione let out a soft, delighted laugh.
Harry turned to her, glaring. “Don’t.”
Hermione took a sip of her pumpkin juice, looking far too pleased.
“I didn’t say anything.”
Harry groaned.
She was going to be insufferable.
That night, as Harry lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the thought finally, horrifyingly, fully sank in.
He liked Seamus.
Like, really liked Seamus.
Like, spend all his time thinking about him, imagining kissing him, accidentally-on-purpose letting him steal his jumper forever liked him.
And Seamus?
Seamus was so bloody oblivious.
Harry groaned into his pillow.
He was so doomed.