Chapter Text
The Muggle pub smelled like whisky, damp wood, and too many pints spilled over the years.
O’Malleys
It was tucked between a butcher and an antique shop, the kind of place you’d miss if you weren’t looking for it—dim, warm, quiet voices buzzing from sticky bartop tables. A fiddle hummed low from the wireless, half-lost under the clink of glasses and laughter buried under thick smoke.
Ginny liked it here. It felt separate from everything else. Here, she had privacy. No tabloid photographers lurking, no sneaky gotcha-journalists to chronicle her come-apart.
She was on her second pint. Guinness, because the bartender—a tattooed woman with dark curls and a wicked grin—had said it’d be perfect for her. She’d smiled when she said it, so Ginny had taken the glass without arguing. The bartender had been right, of course.
Her reflection stared back at her from the streaked mirror behind the bar. Pale skin, sun-warmed freckles across her nose and collarbone. A streak of moisture clung to her temple from the heat. She pulled at the base of her ponytail, loosening it slightly, but it didn’t help much. Wisps clung stubbornly to her neck.
She didn’t feel like herself but she still looked the part.
Her red crop top clung to her slender frame and high-waisted jeans with rips at the knees fit snugly around her arse. She wore gold hoop earrings that caught in the low light and her chipped black nail polish was nearly gone, some of the flakes clinging to the freckled fingers curled around her pint. She wasn’t in a rush to move. Just drinking slowly, her jaw set like she didn’t care how long she’d been sitting there.
The truth was, she was so tired. Of searching, of running, of pretending she wasn’t unraveling by degrees.
She had spent the entire day flat-hunting through Muggle London with sore feet, shit weather, and not a single place that felt like anything but temporary. Every flat looked too clean or too haunted. Every agent had been too chirpy. Not a single place had caught her interests, no space for her broom, her kit, or whatever was left of her heart.
It had been three months since Harry ended it. Four and a half years together, and now here she was alone in a Muggle pub with no prospects.
She pushed the thought away, tapped the rim of her glass. Once. Twice.
I’m not supposed to care anymore. That was the deal.
There had been Quidditch, at least. Matches, training, press. A full schedule and an airtight distraction. But the season was over now. And the silence stretched.
Soon, she’d have to move out of Grimmauld Place. Harry had told her it could wait until the season ended, but she’d been putting it off for two weeks now, crashing at Luna and Daphne’s flat near Regent's Park.
Luna had offered to help her pack whenever she was ready. Ron had too, though he’d looked like he wanted to punch something when she told him about the breakup, and had nearly set the Burrow on fire when Harry announced last month that he was already seeing someone new.
That stung.
That she’d meant so little to him, in the end. That after only a couple months, he’d be serious enough with someone to tell her family. Someone who, apparently, liked to wear his old Gryffindor jumpers and was doing Godric knew what to her ex-boyfriend on her bloody sofa.
But she needed a place to put her things before she went and collected them. And today had been a total bust. She didn’t want to overstay her welcome with the couple but nothing had felt right.
She traced her finger through the fog on her pint glass and wondered if she’d ever stop feeling like she was holding herself together with Spellotape and grit. She ordered her third pint from the pretty bartender and sank lower into the padded bar stool.
If Luna asks, I had one drink. Maybe two.
Ginny lifted the pint again, sipped, and let her gaze slide out of focus across the bar, taking in the wall of gold-framed photographs, the soft, amber-tinted blur of people who didn’t know her and never would and the blessed anonymity that came with Muggle bars.
She liked that. Being unknown. Being no one for a while.
Just a girl with sore feet and a loud laugh that hadn’t made an appearance in weeks, sitting in a pub meant for Muggle football fans, quietly falling apart.
⟡⟡⟡⟡
Seamus Finnigan came to this pub every week to watch his Da’s favorite league team play on the telly over the bar but tonight was different.
He spotted her as soon as he stepped inside. Her back was to the door, elbow on the bar, unmistakable Weasley hair tied high but coming undone in the heat. Ginny Weasley, alone at a Muggle pub, halfway through what looked like a pint of Guinness.
The sight of her stopped him for a second, just inside the doorway. Not because she was famous—though she was a household name now to most Quidditch fans—but because that slope of her shoulders made her look… not broken. Only frayed around the edges in a way he wasn’t used to seeing on her.
Ginny Weasley didn’t fray.
Seamus rolled his shoulders, shrugged off the mist and London air, and made his way toward the bar like he hadn’t noticed her at all.
Like he hadn’t been noticing her for years.
He slid onto the stool beside her like he’d been summoned smelling faintly of cigarette smoke, mint, and that strange, heady mix of ink and metal. His leather jacket creaked as he sat. She didn’t look at him directly, but something in her posture shifted like she was bracing for impact.
He felt like home. And trouble. And maybe enough of a distraction to be dangerous.
The jacket came off a minute later, draped over the back of his stool. The olive-green Henley clung to his broad shoulders, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, exposing forearms inked in thick black lines—runes, spellwork, and a long fox wreathed in flame winding from wrist to elbow. The tattoos didn’t move here, not in a Muggle space, but they felt alive somehow.
She noticed the fox. Of course she did. Anyone who knew him would’ve. But she said nothing.
He caught her glance flicking to the knot of ink just under his collarbone, barely visible through the collar of his shirt. The magic woven into the lines shimmered faintly in the low light, subtle, like breath held still.
Most people wouldn’t have noticed, especially the Muggles.
But Ginny Weasley always had good eyes.
“Merlin, Weasley,” he said, breaking the silence. His tone was teasing and familiar. “You drink Guinness now? Have ya gone full Muggle?”
Ginny snorted into her pint, not quite laughing, but close. “Full Muggle,” she said, voice still a little hoarse. “Next thing you know, I’ll be wearing trainers with dress robes and forgetting how to use a wand.”
Seamus grinned like she’d handed him a pint of his own. “I’ve seen worse,” he said, eyes gleaming. “Bloke came into my shop last week in socks and sandals. Said it was a ‘stylistic compromise.’ I nearly hexed him for crimes against fashion.”
Her lips twitched despite herself. They settled into the kind of easy silence only old classmates can manage, where time folds in on itself and the past doesn’t seem so far gone. The bartender slid a basket of chips down the bar, nodding toward them like she approved of their banter.
“Had a great season, ya did.”
Ginny relaxed slightly, letting the pint rest against her bottom lip. “You still follow the Harpies?”
“Course I do. Best team in the league.”
“Seamus. You’re a Kestrals fan. You should know we placed second,” she said, narrowing her eyes.
“Still the best. Kenmare only beat you because our Keeper’s been dosed with divine luck since birth.” He sipped his lager, then added with mock solemnity, “Though your new Seeker’s a menace. That Wronski Feint against the Falcons? Nearly made me cry. In public.”
Ginny hummed. “She’s seventeen and thinks she’s Morgana reborn.”
“Sounds like someone I used to know.” He nudged her gently with his elbow.
She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth curved upward. “You know, I didn’t think I’d run into anyone I knew here.”
Seamus tilted his glass in her direction. “I come here every week. My Da’s favorite team plays Tuesdays and Thursdays and this pub shows all the matches. It’s tradition.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “Didn’t peg you for the traditional type.”
He shrugged, but there was a spark in his eye. “Only when it suits me.”
She studied him then, really looked at him. The years since school had been kind to Seamus Finnigan. He was broader than she remembered, arms thick with muscle and ink, sandy blond hair shorter on the sides and a little wild on top. His grin hadn’t changed. But everything else had sharpened, he was handsome.
“So,” she said slowly, “what’s with the tattoos?”
He grinned wider. “Oh, yeah. Got out of Hogwarts, needed something to keep my hands busy. I’ve always had two loves, ya’ know? Fire and drawing. And the Muggle side of my family was always really big into ink. So I apprenticed for an artist me Da’ knows in Bristol for a year then opened a shop in Camden. Muggle-facing, mostly. But magical clients know what to ask for.”
Ginny blinked. “Wait, really? You own a shop?”
He leaned in, voice dropping just enough to make her lean back with him. “For about three years now. Tattooing’s a kind of magic anyway, innit? Blood and ink and intention.” Then, with a mischievous glance toward the bartender to make sure she was occupied, he lifted his forearm off the bar.
A shimmer passed over his skin like a ripple of heat. The fox inked there—still and dark a moment ago—lit with silver fire. The flames curled and danced, alive with the eerie glow of a cast Patronus. Ginny’s breath caught.
She looked from the fox to his face. “That’s new.”
“Not that new,” he said, casually. “Fox was always mine. I just made it permanent.”
She didn’t say anything at first, only watched the silver fire flicker until it faded and the tattoo settled flat, unmoving, like any other ink in a Muggle bar.
“That’s brilliant,” she said finally, “really Seamus. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
He shrugged, but his grin told her he was pleased she thought so.
They were halfway through the chips and onto their next drinks when he said it.
“So, where’s Potter tonight?” Seamus asked, not unkindly. “Off saving the world again?”
Ginny barked a laugh before she could stop it. It sounded sharp to her own ears, filled with bitterness loud enough that the bartender glanced up.
She didn’t care.
“Oh, I dunno,” she said, too brightly. “Probably shagging Theodore Nott on the new sofa I picked out for Grimmauld Place. Never even got to test it out myself.”
The words hit the bar like a spilled pint; sudden, messy, impossible to ignore. Ginny froze. For a second, it was like she’d stepped outside herself, listening from above as the sentence echoed.
Well. There it is.
She didn’t look at Seamus. Just stared down at her glass, the foam clinging to the rim.
“That’s—” she started, then stopped. Swallowed. “Sorry. That was a bit much.”
He didn’t laugh. Didn’t wince. He stayed still beside her, elbow on the bar, eyes steady.
“Not really,” he said finally. Voice low. Solid. “Sounds like you’ve been carrying that around too long.”
Her mouth twisted. “Three months,” she said. “Four and a half years together, and I get two months of silence. Then an owl. Two lines. Sorry, Gin. Hope you understand why I can’t do this anymore. And then two months later Ron tells me Harry’s seeing someone. Says he didn’t want to say who but George had no such loyalties.”
She scoffed, pressing her fingers to her forehead like she could keep the pressure from leaking out. “Wasn’t hard to believe, I guess. Since Hermione and Malfoy started seeing each other it makes sense. I was gone and he was there and…I should’ve seen it. Only person who’d ever made him blush besides me was Theo sodding Nott.”
Seamus didn’t speak. Didn’t interrupt. He let her talk. Let her say it.
“I’ve been living out of a bloody duffle at Lu and Daph’s,” she went on. “Quidditch season ended, and I realised I didn’t even have a place to live anymore. Grimmauld was always just ours. And now he’s there, and I’m here. In a bar. Trying not to fall apart right here in this seat.”
There was a silence after that, the kind that wasn’t empty so much as thick with everything she hadn’t meant to say.
Ginny stared down at her hands, now clenched in her lap. Her knuckles white.
“I didn’t mean to dump that on you.”
Seamus exhaled slowly. Not pity. Not awkwardness. A kind of quiet weight.
“Good a place as any,” he said. “Bar’s seen worse. Trust me.”
She snorted, and something inside her eased.
Seamus didn’t push. He just let the silence settle, let her breathe again.
A few more minutes passed like that—chipping away at the basket of chips, the clink of pint glasses, the hum of the pub washing over them in a way that made the world feel softer around the edges.
But something she’d said stuck with him.
She’s been living out of a duffle.
He glanced sideways at her, noting the tired set of her shoulders, the way her foot tapped restlessly against the rung of the stool.
“I might have something,” he said after a pause, voice light but deliberate. “No pressure, and don’t laugh, but the flat above my shop’s been empty for a month. Last tenant moved to Berlin to chase some witch in a punk band. You know how it is.”
Ginny blinked, thrown for a second. “Are you—what, offering it to me?”
He grinned, all crooked charm and something steadier underneath. “If you want it. It’s not the Ritz, but it’s solid. Two bedrooms, a large bathtub, loads of windows to let in light. Quiet. No shite landlords, because I own the building. And no ex-boyfriends anywhere near the sofa, well because there isn’t one yet.”
She huffed a surprised laugh, shaking her head. “You’re actually serious.”
“Deadly.” He took a sip of his pint. “Figured if you’re still flat-hunting, you might want to see it. Again, totally no pressure.”
Ginny hesitated, then glanced at her half-empty glass. “I’ve had a bit to drink.”
Seamus grabbed his leather jacket from the back of the stool and reached into the pocket. He pulled out a small, silver-stoppered flask.
“Sober-up potion. Keep a couple on me. Pub gets a little rowdy sometimes, and I like to be able to Apparate home without winding up in a wall.”
She looked at the flask, then at him,. “You’re not joking.”
“Not about something like this, Gin.”
And just like that, something shifted. Not everything. But a little.
He didn’t try to fix her. Just offered something stable. For the first time in weeks Ginny felt the knot in her chest ease enough to decide to say yes.
Ginny reached for the flask, her fingers brushing his as she took it. The potion went down sharp, clearing the haze behind her eyes almost instantly. She blinked once, then again, surprised by how quickly it worked.
“Well,” she said, setting the flask back on the bar, “I suppose I’m out of excuses.”
Seamus smirked. “Brilliant. Shall we, then?”
He stood and shrugged on his jacket, the worn leather creaking softly. Ginny slid off her stool and reached for her bag, but before she could fish out any cash Seamus was already at the till talking to the cute bartender.
The woman leaned in with an obvious familiarity as she spoke to him, her dark curls falling forward, her own tattoos more prevalent as she rested her elbows on the bar. Flirting, clearly—her smile slow, the kind that invited a little trouble.
Ginny watched, a flicker of something tight curling low in her chest.
But then Seamus did something that surprised her.
“Put hers on mine, too,” he told the bartender. He handed over a few Muggle notes, said something that made the bartender nod, and then turned back to Ginny. And when his eyes found hers, he flashed a grin so bright it could’ve lit up the entire Great Hall.
Ginny blinked. “You didn’t have to—”
Warmth bloomed in her throat.
“I know,” he said, slipping her a wink as he rejoined her at the door. “But that’s why I did.”
She rolled her eyes, but her mouth tugged upward despite herself.
They stepped outside into the night, the door swinging shut behind them with a dull thud. The air was cooler now, the street damp and quiet, lit gold by flickering lamps.
Seamus offered his arm, and after a pause, Ginny took it. They wandered down the alley beside the pub and then Disapparated with a crack!