You hadn't seen Seamus Finnigan in years. Not since the dust had settled at Hogwarts, not since the castle stood broken but undefeated, with memories etched into every stone. So when you received the owl—his handwriting still messy, still unmistakably him—your heart skipped.

The pub in Hogsmeade was warm, humming with soft chatter and clinking mugs. You spotted him near the back, hair a little longer now, smile just as boyish. He stood up the second he saw you.

—“Blimey... You look exactly the same.”

You didn’t. Neither did he. There was something quieter in his eyes now—like the fire that once made him light up cauldrons had settled into embers.

You talked for hours. About silly things—Dean’s ridiculous new flat, Neville’s Herbology lectures that somehow always turned into duels with rogue plants. About the things you’d avoided for years, too. The way the castle groaned that night. The people who didn’t make it out.

He grew silent for a moment, tracing the rim of his butterbeer glass.

—“I think I was scared to write to you sooner. Dunno why. Maybe I thought you'd moved on. Forgotten everything... maybe even me.”

Your chest ached a little at that.

Outside, snow had started to fall, gentle against the windows. You both stared at it, lost in thought.

—“You were one of the best parts of that place,” he added quietly. “Even with everything. I always wanted to tell you.”

And in that small, quiet moment—between snowflakes, old memories, and the warmth of two hands slowly finding each other again—you realized something had never really ended. It had only paused.