For The 2012 Hogwarts Games: Men's Football. My assigned pairing: Seamus/Luna. This breaks my shipping heart, considering I ship both Dean/Seamus and Dean/Luna, but it was still wildly fun.

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In a way, he thinks, he understands her better than anyone else. She's Loony Luna, and he's That Crazy Irish Kid. And they are both fully aware of how people see them, both fully aware that they could change it, if they wanted to. After all, their reputations are born of a refusal to adhere to socially accepted patterns of behavior.

But Seamus is proud of who he is and where he comes from, and he won't change that to seem normal. He suspects Luna is much the same.

He remembers a phrase he'd heard once, though he doesn't remember where. "Unironically enthusiastic about the miracle of human consciousness(1)." That describes him to a T. He doesn't believe in decorum or reservations. He believes in loving things completely and living vividly. He doesn't believe in hiding his opinions — and that's exactly how Luna is, isn't it? Expressive, regardless of how others will react. She lives for her, not for anyone else.

So, really, it shouldn't be the slightest bit surprising that he falls for her.

He meets her for the first time at a DA meeting — his first, but one of many for her. She smiles at him and says, "Hello, Seamus."

He hasn't a clue who she is. "Hello," he replies, wondering if he can bluff his way through an entire conversation just in case he's supposed to know her name.

She sees right through him in an instant. "Luna," she says.

He recognises the name. Dean's mentioned her before, says she's mad as a hatter but absolutely brilliant, too. But then, Dean's an artist; he goes for the mad types. It's why he and Seamus get along so well.

"You've a fluffalump following you, did you know?"

"A… what, exactly?"

"A fluffalump. Relatively harmless, really. They latch on to original souls. I've a whole host of them that've been following me for a while, you see?"

Seamus doesn't see, not at all, but he grins. "Thanks for letting me know that, Luna."

She smiles serenely back at him.

That's not when he falls for her, though. He falls for her a year and a half later, watching her tell Amycus Carrow that there's a blibbering humdinger flying around his head with a perfectly straight face as a couple of third years sneak behind Amycus' back in the opposite direction. All she'd said before walking out into the open was that she'd manage the diversion.

Amycus slaps her so hard she stumbles and falls, but all the while she wears that serene, I-can't-help-it-I'm-a-crazy-person smile, and Amycus just scowls at her and stalks away.

She could have been a Gryffindor, Seamus thinks as Amycus travels the hall, and the minute he vanishes around the corner, Seamus goes to help her up, only to find her already standing, brushing off her robes. Calm.

"I don't like lying," she says. "But sometimes there isn't a better choice."

She's brilliant and brave and clever and fearless and sometimes clueless but always, always convinced that what she's doing is right. And he falls hard.

Then she doesn't come back after the holidays. He hears a rumor that Death Eaters took her straight off the train on the way home. Took her as motivation, to get her father to stop writing "rebellious" articles — to stop him from writing the truth. To stop him from writing about the things she believed in.

Much to Seamus' dismay (and relief, but he doesn't admit that. She wouldn't want her safety to matter more than the war they're fighting, but in some ways it does), the tactic works. The articles stop, but there's no word of her.

He worries. Ceaselessly. First she disappears, and then he hears word over the Wireless that Dean's whereabouts are uncertain as well. His best friend and the girl he's fallen for are both out there somewhere, suffering. Or maybe they aren't, and that thought is even worse. Maybe they aren't out there at all, anymore.

So Seamus fights. Seamus fights for the ones he can save, in lieu of the ones he can't.

He fights, and he hopes, and he worries. Ceaselessly.

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(1) This is a quote from John Green.