Seamus yawned and looked around, a pressing need to go to the bathroom pressing against his bladder, and he stumbled around, knocking things over on the way to the bathroom.

He squeaked as a splinching pain jolted through his toe, and a hot tear rolled down his cheek.

"Serves y'right, Shamus Finnigan," would say his gran. "I'll cure yer toe alrigh', too bad I can't cure yer idiocy. Go get me a glass o' Tullamore Dew, now will ye?"

For a second he missed home violently, then he raised his head and a muffled scream passed his lips –for a second, the pale figure in the eerie moonlight seemed a banshee to him –livid skin, wan' it? Then he recognised the hair, and breathed in relief.

"Geeze Potter, ye scared the life outta me."

"Sorry, uh…," said the boy quietly. His sea glass green eyes were shining like jade, and there was a vacantness to it that didn't help his nervousness at standing in the middle of an unfamiliar place in the middle of the night.

Seamus shivered: maybe he was a little bit banshee after all.

"S'alright," he muttured. "And…Seamus. Seamus Finnigan, that's my name."

He remembered thinking at dinner that the boy wasn't what he'd expected Harry Potter to look like –he was the petite, waifish sort, and his mussed up hair were longish, his fringe so long it practically covered his eyes, like he hadn't had a cut for ages.

Seamus didn't thing his ma' would let him stay that long without a visit to the hairdresser.

He was so pale, as well. A pretty pale, but not a healthy one like his sister's translucent skin. He looked like those types who would faint sometimes and need sugar –he thought it was a pretty cool disease, personally, but seriously, being paler than Malfoy when you weren't even blond? That didn't seem right.

Seamus could guess that it was the reason why there hadn't been a crowd at his compartment or something –the whole train had been brimming with gossip that Harry Potter was entering his first year, but none of the people who had traipsed round the bus searching for him had recognise the saviour into the languid kid with chocolate stained fingers –he certainly hadn't. And the hair covered the scar too well for anyone to recognise it because of it.

When he looked harder, Seamus could see the wizarding blood in him, o' course. His gran had told him proudly many times that James Potter had looked like his mother, Dorea Potter, nee Black, which made Harry Potter his cousin, yes sir. And she'd shown him that one photo of her and her cousin Dorea at the Christmas ball in 1927.

Potter looked crushingly like his grandmother.

A jolt down his belly reminded him why he'd bothered going out of his bed in the first place, and his eyes widened:

"Need the bathroom!" he exclaimed, scampering off as fast as a hunted deer.

Harry blinked a little, unsure whether to return to his reading or not, and ended up waiting, feeling slightly weird looking at the bathroom door so intently.

Seamus came out just as he was about to forget it and start reading again:

"Woosh…that really needed out."

For a second, bemusement flashed in the green eyes, nut it dies out almost immediately, and Seamus felt something akin to nervousness because, ultimately, he'd been expecting the dark haired boy to smile.

He cleared his throat nervously:

"Too much information?" he asked nervously, but it came out as more of a squeak.

Harry shook his head:

"Not at all."

His voice was still the same soft tone, but he wasn't whispering , or trying to be quiet for the sake of the sleepy student, he…just…talked that way…Seamus was starting to feel like there was something disturbing about the whole thing. Something that would have made sense if he were older but somehow couldn't quite grasp.

He frowned:

I'll get it anyways, he decided.

"Soooo…did something wake ye up?"

"Uh…No, I just…I couldn't sleep so…"

Seamus settled at an odd angle, one leg around Harry's and started babbling away.