Dean tried his level best not to look at the face on the limp form that he and Terry Boot were carrying to the Great Hall. Judging by the robes, the man had been an Auror. All around them, similar treks were taking place, and most of them were bearing the same solemn burdens. They had expected this, death, but somehow nothing could have prepared them for the sight that was rows of bodies, lined up on the floor where the tables should have been.

Someone that Dean didn't recognise was directing the influx of casualties, sending identified victims to one row, unidentified ones to another, and the ones that were still alive to sit along the wall and wait their turn to be treated by the visibly flustered Madam Pomfrey. As much as he hadn't wanted to lay so much as a stray glance at the unnamed Auror, Dean was even more reluctant to glance at the line of victims that were still recognisable. He wasn't naïve; there would, of course, be at least someone there that he knew, and there was a distinct possibility that he'd even cared deeply about that person.

When the fallen Auror was deposited, Dean and Terry went back toward the second floor hallway, where there had been massive damage and probably had even more dead that were waiting to be sorted. He hadn't meant to see anything, but Dean's heart nearly stopped when a witch and wizard were toting one person that he had wanted to talk to after this whole fiasco was over, but that would never happen.

Terry noticed that Dean had stopped, but when he saw what his comrade was staring at, he understood. “I'm sorry, mate. I know you two were friends.” But Dean didn't hear him. All that kept going through his mind was a resounding plea: Why? Why did it have to be Seamus? Why did Seamus have to die?

The witch who was helping carry Seamus noticed that Dean looked nearly ill. She whispered something to her partner, and they set down the body so she could approach. “I'm sorry, but I was wondering if you knew who this was.”

“His name was Seamus Finnigan, and he was my best friend.” Saying it aloud seemed to crumble the last of Dean's self-control, and he leant against the wall, tilting his head back to keep pooling tears from streaming down his face.

Gently, she placed a hand on his shoulder and whispered, “I'm so sorry.”

Excusing himself, Terry left to help the witch's partner carry Seamus to the Great Hall. Dean was simply bereft of the ability to care about anything at that point. This woman didn't matter, Terry didn't matter, Harry didn't matter, and Voldemort didn't matter. Only the fact that Seamus had died before he had truly lived mattered.

“Come, talk a walk with me,” she said, pulling on Dean's arm in the direction of the front doors. For lack of any reason not to, he complied. Outside, the sky was just beginning the initial stages of dawn, casting an eerie light on the castle. The woman indicated that he should sit on the steps and face the lake. “So, what's your name?”

Blankly, he replied, “Dean. Dean Thomas.”

“Hestia Jones,” she said, holding out her hand for him to shake.

He did so, mostly to keep from offending her, as she had been kind to him, however unsolicited it might have been. But mostly, he just glanced out at the still water, wondering how it had the audacity to be so calm when everything else in sight had essentially fallen to shit. He must have said it aloud, because when he had that thought, Hestia had said, “I know.”

It was then that Dean saw fit to actually look at Hestia. She had black hair, round cheeks, a pink-tinged complexion, and the remnants of a smile that never quite went away. If he had to guess, she was about twenty-five.

“I wasn't even supposed to be here, you know,” she said. “I was sent with someone else to keep an eye on Harry Potter's Muggle relatives, but when we got the news that the battle had started, Dedalus told me that he could manage on his own. So, here I am, and I feel selfish and horrible because I keep thinking that I could have just stayed where I was instead of coming here to this.” Her arm made a broad sweep at the castle.

This was something that Dean definitely understood. He could have begged off and stayed with Ron's Aunt Muriel's house, and no one would have thought lesser of him for it. He had been on the run for months and then imprisoned, and he was using an unfamiliar wand. Coming back had actually been a stupid and dangerous thing to do, but he was Gryffindor, and they specialised and the stupid and dangerous.

Dean sat there, looking beyond the water and the distant mountains with someone who was for all intents and purposes a complete stranger, enjoying the fact that nothing beyond this was required of him. His sense of purpose was gone. If things like the sunrise could happen without fail, even on a day like this one, then the world was callous and unfeeling and he wanted no part in it.

He was surprised when Hestia asked him a question. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

“Not any more,” he said flatly. “She's with Harry now.”

Nodding in acknowledgement, Hestia looked down, and out of the corner of her eye, Dean could swear that she was blushing because she had asked such a personal question. The corners of his mouth twitched involuntarily. He felt better knowing that this conversation was as odd and stumbling for her as it was for him. “How ‘bout you, then?”

“No, not really. I see someone here and there, but it’s nothing serious. Plus, I’ve been on assignment for nine months, so that effectively ends anything that had actually been there in the first place.”

Her tone was just so matter-of-fact, like she was merely stating a fact and it didn’t bother her. Maybe she has stopped caring about things altogether. Maybe she just understood more than he did. Dean didn’t know which, but he envied her that detachment from something that still bothered him, even after a year.

Without warning, Hestia stood up and took one last glance across the lake before starting up the steps. “This isn’t over yet. You know what, Dean Thomas, we’re going to make it through this thing.”

Incredulous, Dean asked, “And what makes you so sure?”

“Because if we don’t, then You-Know-Who wins. When I became an Order member, I said that I’d fight until my last breath. I can’t change my mind now that it’s an actual possibility.”

Dean lurched to his feet and wheeled around to glare at this woman who had suddenly become disgustingly optimistic to him. “And what about the rest of us?! We didn’t sign up for this. We didn’t ask for this! What about Seamus? What about me? What the hell am I supposed to do now?”

Seemingly not offended by his tone, Hestia said, “Well, you’re here, aren’t you? What do you think you should do?” With that, she left Dean standing at the bottom of the steps, chest heaving, eyes ablaze, and very much confused.


The events of Harry’s final showdown flew in and out of Dean’s mind. He could remember the events just fine, but some sort of disconnect between soul and brain had occurred after he had seen that Seamus was dead. All around him, his fellow combatants had cheered and celebrated for days, and he had hollowly raised his voice along with them, but he still didn’t feel any sort of… anything.

Hestia, of course, had been right. When he came back, he had known that he could very well have died, and the rest of the D.A. that returned had to have realised this as well — including Seamus. If she had not said that to him, he would most likely have stayed out on those steps or, even worse, left entirely. In his heart, he would have regretted it for the rest of his life. There was just no way that he was going to leave without taking some of those Death Eater sons of bitches down for killing his best mate. No way in hell.

And just like that, it was all over. He was done fighting and done running; no one was after him anymore. He was free to go wherever he liked. Home sounded nice, but just when he was about to Apparate to his family’s backyard, he stopped. What was ‘home’, anyway? Was it a building, or was it where he belonged? He had the former, but the latter… he wasn’t sure.

He decided against returning to his mother and her family. None of them would even be able to grasp any of it. His half-brothers and sisters were far too young to understand the concept of war, let alone living with the loss of someone who had been just like a brother for years. His mum would try to be sweet and insist that eating proper food would make him all right again, and his step-dad would just shy away, afraid of encroaching upon some invisible line that existed between one’s own children and one’s children by marriage. He would have no one, and nothing would be familiar anymore.

Instead of that, Dean decided to seek out the one person that he knew could commiserate with him. That led him to the office of one Kingsley Shacklebolt, the brand new Minister of Magic, frankly in awe that he had even been granted audience.

Dean was surprised when Shacklebolt knew who he was, but after a few words, it didn’t anymore. The man was razor-sharp and paid attention to the most minute of details. He also seemed obnoxiously interested in why Dean wanted to know where he could find a Miss Hestia Jones.

“I’m afraid Miss Jones is in St Mungo’s right now. She took a nasty hex, and it might take some time before she recovers.” Seeing Dean’s sharp inhalation of breath, Shacklebolt asked, “Any particular reason you wanted to see her?”

It rankled that he was being questioned about his motives, but Dean understood that it was Shacklebolt’s job to know as much as possible about everything. Besides, it wasn’t like he had any nefarious intentions. He just wanted to talk. Nothing more. Just talk to her. And he said so.

“Since I see that this means a great deal to you, and you are one of Harry’s friends, I’ll owl the guards at St Mungo’s to let you in to see her.”

Thanking the Minister for his time, Dean left the Ministry, now wondering what he was supposed to actually talk about with Hestia. Their only encounter had been in an emotionally traumatising moment, and it was likely that, outside of that, they really had nothing in common. But, in the vague hope of her giving him a spark of bravery like the last time, he was willing to try.

The desk witch directed him to the fourth floor, second door on the left, which was the Short-Term Spell Damage Ward. He thought briefly about stopping by the gift shop on the fifth floor to buy her flowers or something, but he neither had money nor any idea what she might like. Instead, he walked through the door with nothing but a fistful of T-shirt hem.

Inside, Dean could see several curtained off areas, which he guessed gave the patients as much privacy as one could have in a room with ten beds, but he had no idea behind which one he would find Hestia. Luckily, one of the Healers saw his predicament and asked who he was looking for. He was directed toward the second to last one on the right.

Hand on the edge of the curtain, he hesitated. Would she even remember who he was? They had known one another for a grand total of about twenty minutes and in the thick of battle. Suddenly, coming there no longer seemed like a good idea. Just as he was about to let go and leave, he heard her speak.

“If you come bearing potions, I’m not here.”

Her sense of humour, despite the weakness in her voice, made Dean chuckle and remember why he wanted to see her. She made him feel better about things. With a firmer resolve, he pulled back that curtain and his heart lurched. The whole left side of her face was one massive bruise, and her arm on that side was heavily bandaged, as well. It looked like she’d been hit by a lorry.

When Hestia saw who was there instead of a Healer, she tried to smile, even though it caused her to wince. “I never thought I’d see you again.”

That ghost of a smile still there, despite her rather mauled-looking visage, Dean smiled thinly. “I just wanted to say thank you for what you said to me that day. I’d have hated myself if I hadn’t gone back. Then I heard that you’d been hurt and, well, I had to make sure you were okay.”

She frowned. “Well, I don’t know about ‘okay’, but I’ll live if that’s what you’re wondering.”

Dean was curious about her moody demeanour. Even at the battle, she had emanated confidence and calm, but at this point, she seemed to be almost vacant, as if she was barely there. Something wasn’t right. “Did something happen?”

He could tell she was conflicted about whether she should tell him or not, but she eventually said, “Yeah. My boyfriend came by when he heard I was back in town.” She looked down at her knotted hands, almost ashamed. “He’s found someone else.”

“And he came to visit you in the hospital to tell you that?” Dean hissed angrily. “Prat.”

Shaking her head, Hestia said, “No, I’d rather have that bit of unpleasantness out of the way. At least I don’t have to worry about it anymore.”

 “But I thought—“ Dean started, but he felt like he was almost overstepping some invisible boundary.

Hestia eyed him curiously. “What were you going to say?”

Flushing a bit, he said, “Just that you seemed to be over it already when we talked at Hogwarts. Now you seem genuinely upset.”

With a sigh, she leant her head back, almost hiding her whole head in the pile of pillows. “I think I was trying to convince myself that I felt that way because I knew there was a good chance that I could die. No one likes to die thinking about things that might have been. It was better to see it as a ‘never was’.”

Her attitude was much more cynical than he’d ever seen, but he chided himself for thinking that he knew her at all. Maybe this was the real Hestia — happy on the surface but cold underneath, but he somehow had a hard time swallowing that. Her face just spoke so strongly of someone who was in love with life, and it bothered him to see her like she was.

“Then he’s not good enough for you,” Dean said. “You seem like the type of woman that a man could wait for.” He had no idea what had compelled him to say that, but it felt true to him. If she was brave enough to pledge her life to saving people from Voldemort’s regime, then she deserved the decency of someone who was willing to be there for her in the end as she lay in a bed covered in bruises.
 
His vehemence appeared to cheer her up somewhat.  “That’s so sweet of you. Naïve, but sweet.”

Though he didn’t like being labelled as ‘naïve’, Dean sat on the edge of her bed and patted her non-bandaged hand. “Any time.” It was weird, but he felt better about his own situation by bringing even the slightest light to hers. After all, she had been wounded and dumped in a few days’ time, and she had probably lost friends, too. Her lot was worse than his, and that didn’t seem fair that the universe could do that to someone like her.

So, for the rest of the visit, Dean was determined to learn who Hestia Jones really was. She’d been a Hufflepuff, on the Quidditch team for a few years, and loved to paint. Finally, they had common interests, and the more he knew about her, the more he wanted to know.

Such visits took place once a day until Hestia was released a week later. Dean had met her there to escort her home. It wasn’t that she needed protection so much as her flat was probably smothered in dust after months of disuse, and he would help her clean up if need be.

But that wasn’t necessary. Not only was the place spotless, the refrigerator and pantry were fully stocked. On the kitchen table was a note that read:

Hestia,

I sent someone ahead to make sure your homecoming would be comfortable. It’s the least I could do after your service.

Regards,
Kingsley

Dean felt a rush of goodwill toward the Minister at that point, because the simple gesture brought a smile back to Hestia’s face. “I can’t believe he did that.”

Shrugging, Dean said, “I dunno. He seemed like an all right bloke to me.”

“That he is,” she agreed, almost robotically flitting about the kitchen. She opened the cupboard and squeaked with joy. “Oh, bless their souls! This is my favourite flavour of tea.” She immediately started brewing a potful.

He wished that a jar of tea could make his day like that, but for the moment, Dean would settle for enjoying her excitement vicariously. Soon they were sitting and sipping her preferred blend of tea, which was admittedly very good. The last tea he’d had was at Muriel’s house, which had been stone cold because she was too old to drink it hot. This was nice.

“I’m glad you seem more like yourself now,” Dean said. “I was worried about you when I first saw you at St Mungo’s.”

“Well, I’m glad you came. It’s been really nice, getting to know you. It’s been so long since…”

Curious, Dean urged, “Since what?”

“Since I’ve been around a man that wasn’t Dedalus or that fat old stodge Vernon Dursley. Dursley would say something rude or obnoxious, which is to say damned near everything that came out of his mouth, and then Dedalus would start arguing with him, and then they’d go at it all day. It got to the point where I purposely spent time with Petunia just to get away from them.”

As he did know a bit about Harry’s Muggle relatives, Dean understood that Hestia was not exaggerating. But he didn’t miss the fact that she had referred to him as a ‘man’ and not as a ‘boy’. Even though he was only eighteen, he felt like his adolescence was so far behind him that he could scarcely remember what it had been like to be a normal teenager.

Out of the blue, Hestia asked, “Have you followed any Quidditch at all?”

Shaking his head, Dean said, “Not really. I caught a few games on the wireless at Shell Cottage with Bill, but it was hard to get into because I had no idea what the standings were or what game actually meant anything.”

Hestia grabbed Dean by the arm and dragged him into the lounge. “The League Championships are on this week! Today, Appleby is playing Holyhead. The Arrows have this amazing Seeker who has actually caught a Snitch in twenty seconds flat before.”

Intrigued, Dean sat while she tuned in the wireless station and periodically slapped the side of the radio with her palm. Finally, the pre-game show came on, and she excitedly vaulted herself onto the sofa next to him. Instead of sitting on the opposite side, she was right up against him and her head was resting on his shoulder. It was an oddly familiar gesture, but he didn’t mind. Without thinking about it, he put his arm around her shoulders to accommodate her.

For the next two hours, they alternated yelling at the wireless over botched plays as described by the commentators. They picked the Arrows to root for, mostly because they both knew more players’ names on that team. The Harpies were doing an excellent job keeping the star Seeker from getting to the Snitch. It was when they failed to plan on his skilful execution of the Wronski Feint that he finally ditched them long enough to catch his quarry. The Appleby Arrows were moving on to the Finals to face the winner of the next day’s match of the Kenmare Kestrals against the Tutshill Tornadoes.

Once the match was finished, the sounds of the post-game interviews became background noise as they both sat silently. Dean could smell her hair, which bore the light fragrance of some mysterious fruit, and her body melted into his so effortlessly. This was the first time in what seemed like forever that he felt at peace, and just by being there, ranting about a Quidditch game with him, she had given him that.

She must have been thinking the same thing, because her gaze drifted up toward his face, and her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. Dean found the action to be ridiculously arousing, if only because she didn’t realise how alluring it had looked. He knew at that moment that he wanted to do something either infinitely perfect or monumentally stupid. He wanted to kiss her.

Dean almost reverently lowered his lips to hers, barely grazing the surface, giving her a chance to stop him if she wanted to, but she didn’t. In obvious approval, she moved even closer, pushing their mouths together even tighter. That was all Dean needed to know.

Hands around her waist, he rolled her onto his lap, eliciting a giggle from her. From there, a much deeper kiss ensued, leaving them both gasping for air. When Dean was finally able to speak, he said, “This is probably a really bad idea.”

“Probably.”

“Do you want to stop?”

“Not a chance.”

Groaning, Dean pulled her down on top of him as he lay on the sofa. Something was sparkling in her bottomless brown eyes, and he just knew that it was for him. As it was, he could scarcely believe that this was happening, but it just felt so natural, being there with her. Even if they never went any further, he could’ve laid like this forever. “God, you’re so beautiful.”

Smiling shyly, Hestia kissed his jaw line. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that. Your bone structure is gorgeous, and it makes me want to paint a picture of it so I can stare all day."

Feeling cheeky, Dean asked, “Is my bone structure the only reason why you’d want to kiss me?”

She playfully swatted him on the arm. “Shut it, you!” she said before searing him with her own brand of kiss. “You know better than that.”

And Dean did know better than that. He wasn’t sure if it was something as powerful as love, but there was some natural pull to this most unlikely of women. She was exotic, yet down-to-earth, and she simply understood his feelings, almost on instinct. It was so easy to be with her that, for the moment, he couldn’t think of anywhere else he would rather be.