The First Date
Harry had faced dragons, dementors, and Death Eaters.
None of them had been as terrifying as Seamus Finnigan grinning at him across the Gryffindor table, announcing loudly—
“So, Potter. Fancy lettin’ me take you on a date?”
Harry choked on his pumpkin juice.
“I feel like I’m going to be sick.”
Hermione, who had been listening to Harry spiral for the past twenty minutes, sighed deeply.
"Harry. It's a date. With Seamus. You already kissed him. Twice.”
Harry groaned, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, but that was—different!”
Hermione raised an eyebrow. “How?”
Harry gestured wildly. “That was… heat of the moment! Spur of the moment! This is—planned! This is… romantic!”
Hermione closed her book. Slowly.
“Harry,” she said, patiently, “are you panicking because Seamus is actually putting effort into this?”
Harry froze.
Hermione smirked.
“Oh my god,” she whispered gleefully. “You don’t know how to handle being wooed.”
Harry groaned again. “I hate you.”
Hermione laughed.
Seamus, on the other hand, was having the time of his life.
He had spent the entire day dropping completely casual, totally-not-at-all-planned comments like:
“Hope you’re wearin’ somethin’ nice for me, Potter.”
“Don’t be nervous, love. I’ll be gentle.”
“You like red roses, yeah?” (He did not bring roses, but the panic on Harry’s face was worth it.)
Seamus was fully aware of the power he held, and he was abusing it shamelessly.
"Why are we going this way?" Harry asked, frowning as Seamus led him down a quiet corridor near the Hufflepuff common room.
"Patience, love," Seamus said, smirking.
Harry narrowed his eyes. "Seamus."
Then—Seamus reached up, tickled a pear on an old portrait, and the wall swung open.
Harry’s jaw dropped.
Inside, the Hogwarts kitchens were warm and glowing, the air filled with the smell of freshly baked bread and warm butter.
A small table was set in the corner, lit with floating candles.
Harry turned to Seamus, stunned. “You… planned this?”
Seamus grinned. “Told you I’d treat you right, Potter.”
Harry, for the first time that night, had no idea what to say.
Unbeknownst to them, three Gryffindors were currently hiding behind a stack of kitchen crates.
"Alright, give me a visual," Dean muttered, peering through a tiny gap.
Neville whispered, "Seamus just pulled out a chair for him. Harry looks like he's about to die."
Hermione sighed dreamily. "This is so much better than my novels."
Dean grinned. "How long before Harry panics?"
Neville tapped his quill to his chin. “I’d say… five minutes.”
Hermione shook her head. “Three.”
Dean checked his watch. “Let’s find out.”
Seamus had never been good at sitting still.
And apparently, that applied to dates as well.
Because the second they sat down, he reached across the table and started tracing slow circles on Harry’s wrist with his thumb.
Harry’s entire brain shut down.
“Relax, love,” Seamus murmured, eyes dark with amusement.
Harry, tense as hell: “I am relaxed.”
Seamus raised an eyebrow. “Uh-huh. That why you’re gripping the table like it’s tryin’ to run away?”
Harry immediately let go.
Seamus grinned.
Halfway through their meal, Seamus reached across the table and stole one of Harry’s chips.
Harry raised an eyebrow. “You have your own.”
Seamus chewed, smirking. “Yeah, but yours taste better.”
Harry snorted. “That’s not how food works.”
Seamus shrugged, smug as ever. “It’s how we work.”
And that was it.
That was the moment.
Because Harry realized, all at once, that Seamus wasn’t just flirting.
This wasn’t just banter, or teasing, or something casual.
This was real.
Seamus wanted him.
Not the Chosen One. Not the Boy Who Lived. Just—Harry.
Harry exhaled, looking at him properly.
And then, before he could stop himself—he reached out and stole one of Seamus’s chips right back.
Seamus lit up like Christmas.
And just like that, Harry knew.
He was gone.