Four years, four months, twenty days. One-thousand and two days. Two-hundred and twenty-nine weeks. Thirty-eight-thousand four-hundred and forty-eight hours.

Dean had done the math on and off for years, counting how long it had been since he returned home after his abrupt departure. During those desperate days where he could do nothing but flee for his life, it had been a way to cope. After he had been captured, right after watching Ted Tonks being murdered before his eyes, visualising the familiar tally marks on the back of his lids kept him sane until the ridiculous circumstances of his rescue took him to Shell Cottage.

Even there, on the calm, peaceful beach that spoke to him and told him that his life could be his own again, he marred the sands with that ever burgeoning figure. Had he known then how large that number would become, he would've washed it away himself instead of waiting for the tide to do it. Maybe that might've broken the habit.

Habits were weird things, but they were also necessary. Dean had lots of them. Every night, right at eleven, he would go to bed and stare at the ceiling for an hour, mulling over the day, and then awoke at seven. Promptly at five past nine, he would stroll into the Magical Law Enforcement wing at the Ministry, where he worked as a sketch artist. The moment he was able to leave at five, he bolted to the Atrium and departed to a Muggle pub where no one knew him for a pint. Then he went home. Also, at some point, he couldn't even remember when, but he'd taken up smoking. That had been his day, his week, his month, and his year since the war ended.

Going back had always been on his agenda, but one knows how plans tend to go - sometimes, they don't. It wasn't that he didn't want to see his family, he definitely still loved them, but each letter that he got from them, asking about where he'd been during the war, made him put off that homecoming for another time. Dean didn't even want to think about it himself, let alone explain to his family what it was like to be truly terrified, to run and hide for one's life as one was hunted down for sport and for money. They would have been horrified for certain, but they could never have truly understood it.

But this year, he had to go back. His mum, Lourdes, wouldn't say exactly what it was, but there was definitely something wrong with his eldest sister, Connie. It wasn't stated directly, but ‘I'm worried about such and such sibling' was usually Lourdes's code for that one was sick or in some large form of trouble. Connie was never much one for misbehaviour, so illness was the probable cause.

That also meant that his selfish inability to face them all had to come to an end. No matter what, family was everything, even if seeing them again scared the proverbial pants off of him. Plus, it was Christmas Eve. He personally didn't set much store by the holiday, but it had always been the time in the Thomas household when everyone was together and happy.

It was time to stop running, but he really needed one last cigarette before he left for ‘home' to keep from losing his nerve.

The gentle vibration of the bus's engine through the floorboards was almost soporific. He'd almost forgotten what it was like, considering he usually Apparated anywhere he needed to go, but this was how he'd always travelled to King's Cross for Hogwarts. His stepdad, Frank, had the only car, which he needed for work, so he just dropped Lourdes and Dean off at the local bus stop on his way to the office, with the rest of the children already having been packed off for school themselves.

Twenty-seven minutes. He chortled at how he had always been in the habit of counting. That was how long the trip usually was from his family home in Bethnal Green to King's Cross. It had gone far beyond that at the moment, since a combination of snow and holiday traffic had slowed the journey to a crawl. He was already at forty-one minutes, and there was still at least ten minutes left.

At last, he arrived in Bethnal Green on minute fifty-two, and he would be walking from there. He hadn't exactly told his mum that he was coming home, so there wouldn't be anyone waiting for him at the station. At any rate, the walk would give him the chance to smoke and to calm his nerves before he knocked on the door.

The wind pulled at the hem of his jacket the whole way, but the subsequent chill didn't quicken his stride at all. With every familiar building that he passed, a heaviness climbed upon his shoulders. What had he been thinking? Couldn't he have just written another Christmas card and been done with it? It wouldn't have killed him just to ask what was going on with Connie instead of feeling the stupid, heroic need to see for himself and pretend like there was anything he could do.

Shaking off that rather shameful thought, Dean stood in front of the building that housed the Thomas family flat. He didn't have a key, but the street was fairly inactive, so using his wand to let himself in wasn't an issue. With a glance around, he confirmed that no one was watching and whispered, "Alohomora." A subtle click preceded the door opening a crack.

He looked between the lift and the stairs. Number Thirty-Two was his final destination, on the third level, which would make the lift faster, so naturally, he chose the stairs. As he started up the last flight of steps, he regretted his decision, along with whatever had possessed him to start smoking. His lungs were protesting the unfamiliar exertion of both the walk and the climb.

There it was - the door that led to the hallway for Numbers Thirty through Thirty-Five. At the very end of the corridor on the right was the only home he had known besides Hogwarts since he was three, but with every footfall, the unsettling feeling that he didn't belong there grew and grew. Six... seven... eight... Even as his brain was a jumble of doubt, he kept counting his steps like he had counted everything else.

Twice he stopped, convinced that he could never make it all the way before turning back and leaving, but every time told himself that he was being a prat and kept on. Twelve... thirteen... fourteen... His stride must have been longer than he remembered, because he distinctly recalled twenty-one of them measuring the hallway, but he was only a couple away. He was six-foot-four now, whereas he had been six-foot-one the day he'd left. And, of course, dwelling on such insignificant thoughts was in no way a diversionary tactic. He wasn't hiding at all. He'd duelled for his life in the Battle of Hogwarts. He'd been one of the first to volunteer to help with the rebuilding, and it had been because he'd wanted to do it. He hadn't been afraid. Never.

"Bollocks," he swore aloud. He'd always been a rubbish liar; he couldn't even fool himself. Of course he'd been afraid to come home. It wasn't that he feared his family. What disturbed him the most was the idea that they would pity him for what he went through, that they would somehow put his fate above everyone else who had suffered far worse than he had. Ted had died trying to give their little ragtag group a chance to escape. Snatchers had stolen dozens of Muggle-borns off the streets and took them to the Ministry to have their wands snapped and their freedom revoked. He had even heard Hermione tortured until she bled by a witch who was so fearsome that she could even make an Auror cry for his mummy. He still heard those screams in his sleep sometimes.

He didn't want to hear, "Poor you!" from his Muggle family, because to the wizarding world, he was relatively lucky with his lot. He had a job, a room at a boarding house, enough money to get by, and an off-and-on girlfriend. At twenty-two, almost twenty-three, that was a decent life. He didn't want that sort of pity, and that revulsion kept him frozen on stride fifteen of his traversal of the corridor.

The sound of raised voices came from Number Thirty-Two, and judging by the pitches involved, it was his mum and one of his four sisters. But just as it had flared up, it abruptly stopped as the door was flung open and Connie stalked out, rolling her eyes as she put on her overcoat. That gave Dean enough time to notice a certain, er, physical change in his sixteen-year-old sister. More like an addition, actually.

Connie locked eyes on him. "Oh, so it's you, then." Judging by her tone, her first reunion with her big brother wasn't a joyous one. "Mum's inside."

Clearing his throat of the sickness-inducing lump that had grown there, Dean said, "So, either you've been eating a lot or you're knocked up."

"Oh, noticed, have you? Not like you've been around or anything."

Dean changed his mind. Connie wasn't being cold; she was being positively scathing. Well, two could play that game. "You seem to have got over it fast enough. Anyone I know?"

"Not likely, unless us mere mortals actually hold your interest these days."

So that was it. She thought that he didn't want to see them because they didn't have magic. It was partly true, but certainly not for that reason. "Is that what you think? That I don't come ‘round because you can't do magic?" He scoffed. "Don't be stupid."

She practically ran at him, giving him a mighty shove in the chest. "Don't call me stupid! I'm sick of hearing what everyone thinks of me." In a lower, more threatening tone, she added, "And just because you show up after God knows how long doesn't make everything okay. You're still a git, and I hate you."

With that, she thundered toward the lift and pressed the button for the lobby. As she waited, Dean said weakly, "Connie, stop."

As the lift opened, she turned to him, her face twisted with disgust, and said, "Piss off." She stepped inside without so much as another glance in his direction. Dean could only stare at the spot she had already vacated. So much for pity. Though he wasn't sure that hatred was much better. His mum would be glad to see him, but if this was any indication, then his brothers and sisters might not feel the same.

It was with even greater hesitance that Dean broached the door again. He made the motion several times to knock, each of which was aborted at the last second, but finally, he managed two subtle raps before he lost his nerve again. Why he was so skittish was completely beyond him, and he heartily wished that he wasn't. He was just relieved that none of the neighbours were around to see him angsting over something as stupid as knocking on a door.

When he was sure that no one was going to answer, Dean turned to leave, but he was halted by the sound of the door finally opening. Lourdes stood there, a wooden spoon coated in potato mash in hand, and stared. It scared him a little, because her face did not hold the happiness that he had been hoping to see at least from her. He mumbled, "Please say something."

"You look just like him, you know."

That wasn't what he had expected. "Like who?"

"Your dad."

Dean frowned. He looked nothing like Frank, and he was several inches taller than him, but then it occurred to him that she might not mean his stepdad. "Oh," he said, not sure how to react to the first reference to his biological father from his mum in years. "I suppose."

Grinning at last, Lourdes moved to hug him, but she stopped because of the messy spoon. With a smirk, Dean plucked it from her hand and enveloped her with his much longer arms. "I'm sorry, Mum. I should have done this sooner."

And he meant it. Now that he could smell the familiar scent of his mother, which was a combination of food and lilac, Dean could not even comprehend what had kept him away. It was so stupid, the idea that his mother wouldn't understand. There had never been anything that she hadn't understood before. He had misunderstood her.

Reluctantly breaking off the contact, Dean asked, "Where's Dad? Did he have to work today?"

"Yeah. The store's open until seven tonight, so he can't leave the cash office until eight." She was referring to the department store in which Frank worked as the financial manager. "Your brothers and sisters are at Gran's, ‘cept Connie. She just left. The deli didn't open today, so I got the day off to cook dinner." Lourdes stopped to think for a second before she slapped Dean's hand with the still-caked spoon. "Shame on you for not telling me you were coming! The flat is a disaster."

Shaking his hand to alleviate the sting, Dean said, "I... I didn't want to upset you if I couldn't go through with it." He visually inspected the back of his hand, which had a round, red welt on it. "Merlin, Mum. That hurt."

"Shush, you!" she said, waving the spoon in his face. "Now, get inside."

Not daring to cross her, Dean complied. His senses were completely shipwrecked by the smells of ham cooking, as well as other delicious things, which caused his stomach to gently remind him that he'd skipped breakfast in favour of sleeping late and an extra cigarette. As she bustled back around the kitchen, Lourdes frowned. "When's the last time you ate? You look like you haven't had a proper meal in weeks!"

"I eat just fine, Mum," Dean said, leaving out the fact that he often didn't eat because he couldn't be bothered to make anything. "Just haven't got any fatter, I s'pose."

As she ladled some sort of soup into a bowl, Lourdes said, "Well, I'll not have it. You'll be eating proper food while you're here, not some dodgy takeaway." Putting his impromptu meal down on the table, she jabbed her finger toward it and said, "Eat."

Dean had almost forgotten how much he loved home cooking. It was bean and bacon potato soup, which had always been his favourite on cold winter days. The hot broth sent waves of warmth into his chilled limbs, still laden with goose bumps from the walk. The flavour lingered in his mouth in the most pleasant way, and it didn't take him long to plough through the entire bowl of it. Leaning back in his chair, he sighed and said, "It's even better than I remember."

She didn't answer, which was odd, because normally she would have said something like, "Of course it is. Don't be stupid." But there was no accompanying quip and not so much as a hint that she was in the room other than the sight of her absently stirring something in a pot.

"Mum, what's wrong? You're quiet, and it sort of freaks me out."

Dropping the spoon, she covered her face in her hands. "Why haven't you come home for so long? How could you make your poor old mum think that you've moved on to better things?"

He had known that this was coming. Even though every year, he had sworn up and down that not visiting on Christmas was a by-product of his job or some other weak excuse, he had somehow figured that she would see through it and make her own conclusion. "Mum, it wasn't that. It was never that."

She sat down in the chair across from him and burned his gaze with hers. "Well, then you'd better have a damned good explanation then, because you have no idea what it's like not knowing whether you're okay or if you'd got a limb chopped off during that war of yours. How am I supposed to sleep at night with all of that?"

"Because some things you're just better off not knowing." And that was the truth. If he could erase some of the horrors of the war from his own mind, he would have in an instant. It wasn't that he didn't want to remember those who had died; he just didn't want to carry around the number of times that it had almost happened to him. That was something he never wanted to put a numeral on, and definitely not something his mother should ever know about. "People died, Mum - people I care about. Every day I go to work, I see people who lost someone they care about. It's not something I particularly want to discuss, and I knew that the first thing you'd want to know is that. It scares the hell out of me to think about, let alone share. Can't we just leave it at that?"

Her answer surprised him. "You really are just like your dad, you know?"

"Yeah, I guess I am," Dean said dryly. "I leave you sitting at home, wondering what the hell is going on. At least I write from time to time."

Lourdes shook her head. "I should have told you this a long time ago. I just didn't want to think about it myself, let alone tell you. When you got your Hogwarts letter, you seemed to stop asking questions, and I wasn't about to bring it up."

Dean stared at his hands, which had become clenched into fists without him even realising it. All these years, his mum had held onto more information about his true parentage and had never deemed it necessary to tell him. It wasn't that he didn't love Frank like a dad, because he had shown him what it was like to be a man and to stick up for the people who mattered to him, but everyone wanted to know where they came from on some level. It was almost a biological imperative, but over the years, he had not been granted anything more than a name, Gerald, and a curt ‘he left'.

"Gerald and I met when I was nineteen and he was twenty-one. I worked at a restaurant around the Royal Victoria Dock, and he came in a lot. Always tipped good, too, even if he dressed like a total nutter. His clothes were really old-fashioned, like he just stepped from the pages of a book or something, and he spoke all proper like." Lourdes sighed and leant back in her chair. "He was like a character from a romance novel, he was. I think I fell in love with him the first time he smiled at me."

Though he badly wanted to point out anything that he considered a flaw in Gerald's character, he really couldn't find any. It sounded just as normal and uneventful as when Lourdes met Frank, a story he did know. So, against his intense desire to deride his biological father, he shut his mouth and listened to the rest.

"One night, he was leaving just as my shift was over, and I don't know what made me do it, but I asked him if he wanted to go out for drinks or something. Strictly speaking, we weren't allowed to do that, but he wasn't just anyone, mind. There was just something about him..."

"Nice night, isn't it?" she asked as Gerald stared up at the sparse array of stars that were visible through the city lights. "It's almost like everything else is so far away."

Nodding, Gerald said, "Indeed it is. Almost." Still fixated by the sky, he added, "Lourdes, may I ask you something?"

"'Course," she said, examining his face for any sign of what he wanted to say, but he was inscrutable.

"Have you ever been faced with a decision and had no idea if you've made the right choice?"

She thought about it. "I suppose everyone has. I would think it comes down to what you can live with and what you can't." Whatever he was actually talking about, Lourdes had no idea, but he had often stared at his dinner plate like he was somewhere else, as if he were battling with himself and still managing to lose the argument. She had wanted to say something so many times, but then she realised that she would have no idea what to say to him and thought better of it. Which was what she wished she'd done at that particular moment.

Laughter wasn't what Lourdes had been expecting. "You know, that's what I like about you - you believe in things. You don't have to think about right and wrong and actually wonder which one you should do." He exhaled heavily and slowly, sending plumes of frozen breath into the chilly night air. "I'm glad I came out tonight. I wasn't certain it was a good idea, but it has been lovely."

Blushing, Lourdes smiled at what she was hoping was a compliment. "So am I. I know it seems forward, but -"

The rest of her stammered reply was pre-empted by his lips brushing across hers, testing the waters and applying for permission. When she laced her fingers into his and pushed herself onto the tips of her toes to deepen the kiss, she granted it. When their mouths parted ways, they were both stunned into silence.

"You mean you kissed a complete stranger?" Dean said incredulously. "You don't know this bloke from Adam and you snog him in the street?"

Rolling her eyes, Lourdes said, "Everyone's a stranger ‘til you get to know them. Besides, he kissed me, so it's not the same thing, love."

Still not sure where the story was going, Dean asked, "Well, how did you go from getting on well to him doing a runner the minute you're pregnant? Is that what happened with Connie, as well?"

"You saw that, then?" She rubbed her face with her hands. "We can't even get her to tell us who the father is. She just says it's none of our business and stops talking to us for a week. That's what happened when she left earlier."

It took a lot for Dean to suppress the urge to strangle his younger sister into telling him who the father of her baby is and then promptly dismantle the little shit limb from limb. His mum was clearly distraught, and murderous thoughts wouldn't make her feel any better, so he kept them to himself. Instead, he said, "Well, you don't have to stop there. What happened next with Gerald?"

Even though the subject was only slightly less uncomfortable, Lourdes gave Dean a wan smile and continued.

During the day, there was nothing romantic about the manky waters of the Thames, but at night, there was just something enchanting about the shimmer of the city lights on the surface. Small Lyle Park offered a wonderful view of the passing ships, but at the same time, it was almost secluded that Wednesday night, as most people were long in bed.

Gerald's hand lightly rested on top of Lourdes's in the space between them on the bench. The contact seemed so innocent, but she couldn't help but feel her belly flip nervously. This was their fourth outing. They weren't dates, exactly, because they would simply go out for a quick bite to eat and just walk around for a while before he escorted her home. He never asked to come into her place or invited her to his. When she thought about it, Lourdes didn't even know where he was staying. And then a chaste kiss marked their parting of ways.

This was the second time they'd come to Lyle Park, and she was glad for it. It seemed to be the only place where he felt truly comfortable. Though he tried to hide it, Gerald spent a lot of time glancing around everywhere they went, as though he was looking for someone he didn't want to see. Lourdes wasn't an expert on much of anything as a nineteen-year-old, but through her job she had learnt a lot about people, and men who looked over their shoulders were men with secrets and enemies. She told herself that it was because of it that he kept her at arm's length. He had to care about her in some capacity in order to want to keep her company, and maybe he cared about her enough to push her away a little.

But this was something she really needed to know. He might not have realised it, but his mere presence turned her insides to a roiling mass of insanity. She was willing to deal with a dodgy past if he was willing to meet her halfway. Her resolve solidified, Lourdes asked, "So, when you're looking over your shoulders, is there anyone in particular who's supposed to be there?"

"My brother and his friends." There was an edge of ice in his voice.

"But why? Why would you be hiding from your brother?"

"Because I don't want his life to be mine." Gerald looked at Lourdes for the first time since they sat down. "Remember when I asked you if you'd ever wondered if you did the right thing?" When she nodded, he continued. "Well, my brother and his mates are into certain... things. I don't want any of that on my head, so I left. I don't care if it's wrong or if it's right; I just don't want anything to do with it."

Lourdes understood that well enough, but she would have hoped that Gerald would be more concerned about the morality of his brother's actions than simply getting away from it. And she said so.

With a wry chuckle, Gerald said, "It's not that simple. It's not one of those things that you can be neutral about. You're either on one side or the other; I simply exercised the third option, and that's to do neither."

"But if you're brother is doing bad things -"

"Then he will do bad things. No matter what, he's still my brother. I can't fight against my family - I won't."

It made sense except for one thing. "But if that's the case, then why are you so afraid of being found?"

"Because his lot doesn't take ‘no' for an answer. One either joins or becomes the enemy."

That sounded a lot like the mafia or something equally worse to Lourdes. She wasn't sure how she should proceed from there. Either he was talking about something entirely different or she had become involved with a black sheep mobster prince. Being born into a wealthy home would have explained his well-made clothing and his abundance of funds despite never mentioning a job. What she really needed to know was whether he was worth the trouble that he would no doubt bring along with him eventually. She was only nineteen! This wasn't in the talk she'd had with her mum about growing up and being on her own.

He seemed to sense her apprehension. "Listen, there are things that I can't tell you about me - things I'll never be able to tell you - so if you don't want anything to do with any of this, I understand. You're too young for this, we both are, but I've come to care for you a great deal. I don't want you to be hurt, so let me know if you want to end things now."

This was her chance, her opportunity to bow out with no hard feelings. He knew that he was asking a lot, and he seemed prepared for her to say no and run for it, but there was something she saw in the soft glint of his eyes that made her want to think twice about it, made her think he was worth it.

"No," she said finally. "I understand. You need your secrets, and I get that, but as long as you're always honest to me about us, it's okay."

The first genuine smile passed across his face before he pressed his lips to hers. This wasn't like their previous kisses; it was more filled with passion and promise and less like a fraternal exchange. Inspired by the new feelings between them, Lourdes looped her arms around his neck and-

"You can, er, skip to the next bit, Mum," Dean said, willing away his inclination to shudder.

Grinning knowingly, Lourdes said, "Oh, you won't mind so much one day, lovey. Everyone has these feelings, and -"

"I've had sex before, Mum," Dean said, ignoring her gasp of surprise. "I just don't want to hear about my parents... never mind. Just get on with it." He scrubbed his face with his hands, trying to remove the haunting image of his mother getting frisky with someone from his eyelids.

"Is that the last of it, then?" Gerald asked, not even having broken a sweat after hauling Lourdes's possessions up the four flights of stairs to their new flat. He owned all of one trunk full of things, but her possessions amounted to much more. She grinned and nodded, offering her arm at the base of the stairs so they could cross the threshold together for the first time - after the monumental climb, of course.

After six months of waiting, of hoping, Gerald had finally admitted that he didn't want to live alone anymore. He still hadn't told her much of anything about his past, but he was honest with her about everything else in his life. He'd got a job working on the docks in the accounting office so he would no longer have to rely on family money to support himself, and Lourdes was proud of him for it. Their new flat would be paid for with their money, not just his.

The rest of the day was spent settling in, unpacking, debating over where to put the few furnishings they had, and other blissfully normal things like that. No mention was made of anything else until later on after dinner, when they were sitting at the kitchen table, by far their largest furnishing.

"Lourdes, I've been meaning to talk to you about something important."

Having a feeling she already knew what he meant, she said, "Okay." Gerald seemed uncomfortable in his own skin, which in itself wasn't abnormal, but judging by his expression, Lourdes knew she was right about the subject matter. And what he said confirmed it.

"Remember when I told you about how my brother had some undesirable friends?" When she nodded, he added, "Well, I just want you to understand that, if they ever come around here looking for me, you need to pretend like you have no idea who I am. If you don't, they might hurt you."

Not really sure what she was suppose to say to that, Lourdes said, "I will." He seemed relieved at her acquiescence. She wanted so badly to ask him what had precipitated this warning other than their new living arrangement, but judging by how open he was about his family before then, she doubted he'd tell her. That was fine by her, though. Everyone had things they didn't want to talk about.

There were a few things she wondered about, though - important things. "How am I supposed to know he's your brother or one of his friends? What's his name? Does he look like you? Who are his friends?"

With a sigh, Gerald said, "His name is Elden, and we do look much alike. Who his friends are doesn't matter. You'll know who they are right away if you see them, as they'll be dressed rather... strangely."

Dean interrupted his mother's story. "What did you say his surname was?"

"I didn't," Lourdes said. "It was Avery."

Something clicked inside Dean's head. That name rang a bell, but one thing didn't make sense. "But I thought that was your maiden name."

Shaking her head, Lourdes said, "No, it was my first married name. I legally changed it, so that was my name when I met Frank. If I went back to my maiden name, he would think it was odd, so I didn't. I liked him, and I couldn't keep going alone. Not with you to think about."

"So you married Dad because you couldn't support yourself," Dean said, borderline disgust in his voice. He'd always assumed that Frank and Lourdes were soul mates. There had been enough of his delusions about his life destroyed that day; he wasn't sure if he wanted to hear any more than that. Another thought struck him. "You were married to two men at once?"

"No, lovey, I bloody well wasn't," Lourdes said sternly. "I married Frank because I love him. I just decided to look for someone because I needed to, but I've always loved him. Never doubt that for a second. Besides, I didn't think anyone would ever find out."

Startled by the vehemence in her voice, Dean said, "Okay, okay!" He put his hands up in mock surrender. "I believe you. I just -"

A revelation of a new sort redirected his brain. "You said Elden Avery?" He'd been trying to place the name since she'd said it, and his mind had finally made the connection. He really didn't want to believe the conclusion he'd drawn, so he needed to make completely sure.

His heart sank when his mum nodded. "You're completely sure?"

"Of course I'm sure, love. It's hard to forget someone's name when they're supposed to be dangerous." Lourdes's eyes narrowed. "Why?"

Dean expelled his breath and nearly shuddered. He needed to be absolutely certain. "Listen, Mum, I have to go somewhere for a little while. I promise I'll be back. I... I just have to check something first." He ignored his mother's protests as he gripped his wand and Apparated to the Atrium of the Ministry.

At the security desk, a reclined Jimmy Peakes was reading an issue of Quidditch Weekly, as the whole place seemed completely vacant. He nearly fell off his chair when Dean spoke. "Evening, Jim."

"Oi, Thomas, not very sporting of you!" Flipping his magazine closed, Jimmy yawned and said, "Scare a bloke half to death."

"Sorry, mate," Dean said. "How late are you working tonight, then?"

Grumbling, Jimmy said, "'Til midnight. Same shift tomorrow, too."

"Anyone else here?" Dean asked hopefully. "Or is it just you?"

Stretching his limbs, Jimmy said, "Jenkins is guarding lock-up, and there's a couple on-call Aurors, but otherwise, yeah." He frowned as suspicion finally caught up to him. "Why?"

Though he knew that what he was asking was against the rules, Dean hoped that Jimmy could find it in his heart to look the other way when he said, "I need to get into the Bio Room."

Scratching the back of his head, Jimmy said, "I dunno, mate. You know that's not allowed. That's Level Two access only."

"But I have Level Two access," Dean said, well aware that Jimmy knew that already.

Jimmy shook his head. "On the clock, ye do, but you're not. Only Level One access can go in there whenever they please, and unless you run a department, then that ain't you."

"Listen, Jim, it's really important. I'm only here to look at one file, and this bloke's not even on the lists." By that, Dean was referring to the Persons of Interest lists for various crimes and other reasons.

Pointedly Jimmy asked, "And how do you know that?"

"Because he's dead." Dean didn't feel the need to explain what - or rather, whom - he was looking for in that file. As far as he was concerned, it was between him and his mum. "So can I, please?" When Jimmy wavered a bit, he pushed, "Ten minutes. Give me ten minutes."

"Five."

That wasn't long enough to even find the right filing cabinet. "Nine."

"Six."

"Seven," Dean pled, already pushing the bounds of impossibility. He nearly hugged the young security guard when he nodded shortly, going back to his magazine like no one had ever been there. Apparently, he was already racing the clock.

He sprinted toward the lift and repeatedly pushed the button for Level Eleven, which was where any and all vital information was stored. The entire floor was armoured to the hilt against every sort of damage from spells to water, fire, and old age. Some of the things down there were centuries old, and most people didn't even know they were there, but Dean was only interested in the Births and Deaths cabinet. More specifically, the one that hosted the ‘A's.

After what seemed like an eon, the lift stopped right before Level Eleven. On cue, Dean said, "Requesting Level Two access."

The automated system droned, "Verifying voice print identification."

"Thomas, Dean. Badge Number six-one-five-seven-seven-one."

"Request sent," the disembodied voice said.

After a few seconds, Jimmy Peakes's voice replaced it by saying, "Go on in. You're down to five minutes."

The second the lift settled, Dean practically sprinted out of it and straight toward the correct cabinet. Luckily, his work sent him down to this part of the Ministry building here and there, hence his level of access, so he was familiar with the layout and the filing system. He was vaguely sure that the ‘AV' drawer was the very bottom one, so he tried it first. Thankfully, the drawer contained every name from ‘AT' to ‘AZ', so he immediately set to work flipping through the top tabs, searching for that all-important name.

Four. He strayed a glance at his watch, which told him he had already spent one minute simply searching for the file. There was no way he could do everything he wanted to do in four minutes, but he was heartened when his eyes locked onto the one he was looking for.

Avery, Gerald Persius.

More nervous than he had ever been about anything in his life, he flipped open the thin file, wondering why it had so little weight to it. The average person's file was twice this size; even his own was larger. Everything about a person was in there - O.W.L. and N.E.W.T scores, every job, every major purchase, Gringotts vault numbers, everything... not to mention anything remotely criminal in nature.

What Dean sought, though, was on the very first page.

Name: Gerald Persius Avery

Born: 26 August, 1959.

Deceased: 4 December 1978

Parents: Thomas Zane Avery (1930-97), Wilhelmina Rycroft (b. 1938-2000)

Siblings: Elden Tarsus Avery (b. 1960)

Cause of Death: Killing Curse (culprit unknown)

Circumstances of Demise: Mr Avery was reported as ‘Missing' on 16 April, 1977 by his parents. His whereabouts from that time until the discovery of his body near a Muggle railway in London's Silvertown are unknown.

The rest of the file was unimportant. He had what he needed to know. Now all that remained was one more visit.

And he'd even done it with two minutes to spare.

* * *

Nobody visited Azkaban. It was permitted, but no one who had anyone to care about them was ever sent there. This was where the very worst of criminals were kept, far into the North Sea and away from decent people.

But Dean didn't care about any of that. He wanted some answers, both for his mum and himself, and only Elden Avery could give him the ones he sought. That the man resided in Azkaban was only a minor hurdle. Jimmy had been surprised by the request for a Floo to Azkaban, but there were no restrictions past a basic background check for that, so within a couple minutes, Dean found himself inside the fabled wizard prison.

The security wizard at the front desk was already expecting him, so Dean was asked to relinquish his wand and to submit to a personal search. Once he had been cleared, Dean was sent to a small antechamber that was separated down the centre by a Permanent Shield Charm to protect visitors from any inmate attacks, where he waited around five minutes for the room's other intended occupant to arrive.

It was striking how well-kept he was. Every strand of hair was in place, and even his sallow, sun-starved face was clean and unblemished. But the thing that was the most surprising, even more than the realisation that his paternal uncle was white, not black, was the coldness in his eyes, and he was staring intently at Dean. It made the younger man fight the urge to squirm like a first-year in detention with Snape. No matter how often he tried not to notice, it felt like those vacant, hollowed eyes stalked him, and it made Dean want to leave.

At the very least, he could ask what he wanted to ask and get the hell out of there post-haste. Leaning against the wall, Dean crossed his arms, and as nonchalantly as he could, he said, "Avery."

Elden didn't break his gaze. "Who wants to know?"

It disconcerted Dean how calm and level the man sounded. He had to bolster his nerve just to move on from there. He had never confronted a member of his father's family before, as up to that day he didn't even know who they were, but now that he was standing there, he almost didn't want to know the answer. "Twenty-three years ago, someone killed your brother. I think you know who that is, and I want you to tell me."

Instead of the desired response, Elden sneered and made a sound that vaguely resembled a laugh. "Don't think I don't know who you are, boy. No idea where you came from, but you're Gerry's boy."

"So what if I am?" Dean challenged. "I don't want to be in the family. I just want some answers. You won't ever see me or hear from me again if you just tell me what I want to know."

Walking up to Dean as close as the shield would allow, Elden stood toe to toe with him, matching his height inch for inch, which very few people could do. Whether it was an effort to intimidate or merely to get a better view of his nephew was unclear, but it made Dean feel obligated to stand up straighter and not allow his counterpart any sort of advantage.

One thing that it did was make Dean understand why his father had left. If Elden was half as intense in his role as a Death Eater, it was not surprising that the idea of being drawn into the same existence was repugnant to someone who had been born into that life like Gerald had been. While fleeing to into Muggle London may not have been the bravest thing to do, at least he had refused to be a part of Voldemort's movement.

Elden still hadn't answered him, so Dean pushed a little bit more. Willing his voice to not waver, he said, "Listen, I'm not asking for much. You made your choice and he made his, and what's done is done. All I want is a name."

"Then a name you shall have."

* * *

When Dean Apparated back to Bethnal Green, he landed next to the skip behind the building. Making sure he wasn't seen, he ran back through the entrance and to the lift; he couldn't move fast enough. His mum had thought for twenty-three years that she'd been abandoned by her husband, but at last, she could know the truth. She had been shielded and protected until the very end by a man who loved her too much to even tell her who he really was.

At last the lift settled upon the third floor once more. Sixteen strides, formerly twenty-one, and he would be back inside that door and able to tell Lourdes everything. There would be no more wondering about where his dad came from or who the man really was, because he knew enough to be sure that when it came down to it, he was not a bad one.

But when he flung the door open, Lourdes was kissing her husband, her real husband, on the cheek in welcome. She saw Dean with the corner of her eye, and lips spread into a wide grin mid-kiss. Whispering something into Frank's ear, she turned him around so that he could face the boy-come-man whom he had always treated like his own son. The sight made Dean falter; he'd never considered how this information could have hurt his stepdad, and that was something he'd never wanted to do.

"'Bout time you came back around, my boy! Been giving your mum fits, you ‘ave." Frank approached Dean, their height disparity even more than the last time they'd seen one another, and pulled him into a backslapping embrace. When the older man's arms disengaged, he said, "It's good to see you."

"You, too," Dean said genuinely. "Sorry I haven't come back in a while. I've been a right prat about that."

Softly punching Dean's arm playfully, Frank said, "Well, you're all grown up now, and you're gettin' a tick too old for ‘angin ‘round us old folk, I reckon. Just pop in ‘ere and there to let us know you're alive."

Dean chuckled. He'd forgotten how thick Frank's country accent was when he was excited, but he missed it just the same. But that thought elicited a new one, and it was that there was no way he could tell his mum about Gerald's death now, at least not with Frank there. Not that day. At least not yet, at any rate.

He had one thing he had to do, though, before he could truly enjoy his homecoming. "Mum, where did Connie go?"

Sighing at the mention of her defiant daughter, Lourdes said, "I think she went to her friend Beth's place."

"Where?"

"They live on the second level in the building next door. Number Twenty-Six, I think." She eyed Dean suspiciously. "Why?"

Not really sure why, Dean said cryptically, "I just need to talk to her. I'll be back." Without waiting for a reply, Dean sped out the door for the second time in less than six hours.

He didn't bother waiting for the lift as he made straight for the stairs, ignoring the burning in his lungs as he reached the bottom. Outside, he turned right and let himself into the adjacent building. After stalking up yet more stairs, Dean found himself face to face with Number Twenty-Six, his chest heaving in exhaustion. He lifted his fist and knocked briskly.

A tall, slender woman answered the door, frowning when she noticed that the caller was of the opposite sex. "Can I help you?" she said coldly.

Disarmed by her frosty tone, Dean said hesitantly, "Is Connie here?"

At the mention of Connie, the woman's face darkened significantly. "I thought Beth made it clear to you that you'd better not be sniffing around here. She said she doesn't want to see you, and -"

Realising who she thought he was, Dean said, "No, no, no! I'm her brother. Connie's my little sister."

Still not convinced, she said, "She didn't say she had an older brother."

"Not surprised." Dean sighed. "I've been... away for a while, but when I found out about her, um, condition, I wanted to know who was responsible for it."

"And why is that?"

"So I can tear his bloody arms and legs off, and maybe something else," Dean said darkly and without qualm.

That seemed to be the ticket to this woman's good graces. With a startling smile in contrast to her earlier ill humour, she held out her hand and said, "The name's Dorothy. Dorothy Cooper. I'm Beth's mum. Nice to meet you, young man."

Shaking her hand and wondering if he should preface every new encounter with threats of dismemberment, he said, "Dean Thomas." Peeking past Dorothy, he asked, "So, can I see Connie?"

"Yeah, just a sec," she said before shrilly bellowing over her shoulder, "Connie! Someone's here to see you."

From the other room, he heard his sister's voice say, "Be right there," followed by the sound of uneven footsteps.

Dean saw Connie round the corner of the hallway, his chest constricting when he saw her wince and rub her lower back. She had obviously been resting, and he'd made her get up, for which he felt completely awful. He would've been more than happy to go to see her if he'd have known.

However, when she saw that it was him, Connie sighed and rolled her eyes. "What do you want?"

Seeing the discomfort between them, Dorothy excused herself - something about needing to take a dish from the oven - and practically ran off. That left them alone in awkward silence as Dean struggled to say the right thing. Of course, he had no idea what that was supposed to be. Instead, he waited for her to speak first.

Maybe that hadn't been such a good idea. "If you're just going to stand there, can I go back to watching telly? I don't even want to talk to you anyway." She turned to go back into the other room.

Finally finding his tongue, Dean said, "Wait!" When Connie stopped in her tracks, he said, "I... I just wanted to talk to you for a while. Catch up, you know." And he fervently hoped that she did know, because he wasn't even sure what it meant. Yes, he wanted to find out who her baby's father was, but he also wanted to mend this bridge that had fallen apart between them without him realising it.

"Not particularly. If you've got something to say, then say it." She crossed her arms, still waiting for him to speak in something other than irrelevancies.

Feeling that familiar longing, Dean said, "Can we go for a walk? I know you're tired and all, but -"

"Fine," she said shortly. "The sooner you lecture me on how irresponsible I am, the sooner you go back to where you came from and leave me alone."

She seemed to have sussed out the gist of his intended topic of conversation already, but he still wanted to chat with her. He was relieved to find that she was indeed following him out of the Coopers' flat and toward the building's lift whilst pulling on her coat. Subjecting her to the stairs wouldn't gain him any goodwill.

When they were finally out in front of the building, Connie snorted and said, "You're a bright one, wanting to go for a walk without a coat on."

Dean hadn't noticed until then that he was cold - damned cold. He glanced around to see if anyone was watching them before casting a non-verbal Warming Charm on the little space around them. With that taken care of, he pulled out a fag and lit it, delighting in that first drag after not having one for a while and dealing with the stresses of the day.

Connie crinkled her nose in disgust when he blew out a cloud of smoke and the wind carried it over on her. "Point your cancer cloud somewhere else."

Taking another heavy puff, Dean said, "You're one to talk." When she gave him a look that could murder, he said, "I'm not here to lecture you." Which was news to him, because that'd been exactly what he had been intending.

"I've found out a few things today, things I want to share with you." Praying he had the tenacity to go through with his confession, he continued. "Today, I found out who my father was and why he left Mum."

She didn't say anything, which he took as a sign that he at least had her attention. That was a start. "All those years, I felt like I needed to hate the man because he was too much of a coward to take care of his own kid. Can you imagine how stupid I felt when I found out that he'd been murdered while trying to lead bad men away from Mum and me?"

"Really?" Connie asked softly. "He did that?"

For the first time in his life, he was proud of Gerald Avery. "Yeah, he did. If not for him, none of us lot would've ever been born, and Dad never would've met Mum."

Surprised, Connie said, "You still think of him as your dad?"

With a shrug, Dean said, "He'll always be my dad. It's just nice to know where I came from and what sort of people my father's family were."

"What sort of people are they?"

Dean had no idea how he was supposed to explain the concept of pure-blood mania with any sort of brevity, so he decided to juxtapose a more relevant example. Sort of. "The worst kind of people. They're sort of like a cult of raging racist mafia types, if that makes any sense. It was that lot I was hiding from four years ago."

"So your dad was a gangster?" Connie looked amused by the idea.

"No," he said, growling in frustration with himself. "He left them behind to be away from all that, and in the end, they found him and killed him for it."

She scratched the back of her head and diverted her eyes. "Yeah, that sucks and all, but why are you telling me this? Do Mum and Dad know?"

"They know his name and what Mum told me. The rest I found out from Ministry of Magic records. I haven't told her, because I don't know if she wants to know. I'm telling you because no one understands what it's like to grow up not knowing where you came from better than I do." He pointed toward her expanded belly. "That baby in there needs to know who he or she is. Even if you can't make it work with that slimy git -"

"Dean!" She poked him square in the chest for emphasis.

Rubbing the now-bruised spot gingerly, he said, "All right! I'm sorry! But think about it. Even if you really want to raise the baby by yourself, don't let it grow up not knowing. Everyone deserves to know, and that's why I came back."

"To tell us all where you've been?"

"More or less." With that, Dean polished off his cigarette and flicked the fag-end into the gutter. "It just took me a while to realise that I need my family, even if you don't seem to need me much anymore."

"Listen, if this is about what I said earlier about hating you -"

Dean shook his head and said, "No, though that did very nearly make me turn tail and run before anyone knew I was there." He took out another cigarette and lit it. "I just want you to understand that shutting everyone out that cares about you won't get you anything but a cold, empty flat and a couple token friends who talk about how pathetic you are behind your back. You deserve so much better than that."

"And how do you know all this?"

"Because that's what my life is like!" Knocking out half the cigarette in one inhalation, he pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. "I've got to go upstairs and explain all this to Mum and Dad, and even after four years, it scares the shit out of me. I don't want that for you."

Connie frowned. "But I'm not being chased by wizard gangsters."

"You know what I mean."

"Yeah, I do." Her tone was the softest that it had been. "I'll go with you to talk to Mum and Dad, and while we're there, I can..."

He could only hope that she meant what he thought she did. "All right then. We can ring Mrs Cooper when we get to the flat and let her know where you are. She seems very mother hen toward you. When she thought that I might have been the bloke who, well... she was dead hostile."

Her smile slowly returned. "Yeah, Beth's her only child, so she sort of latched on to me when we started hanging out."

"I know the sort," he said, grinning at the memory of Molly Weasley's coddling of all her children's friends after the war was over.

Offering his arm, he said, "Shall we?"

"Yeah," Connie said. "Let's go, big brother."

Inwardly, Dean felt a type of exorcism in admitting his own dissatisfaction with the life he'd made for himself. Without the people who meant the most to him, he was sleepwalking through his existence.

But there would be no more counting the ways to turn away the people who loved him. They all had their stories, but those were tales best shared over a hot cup of tea.