I Suspect Nargles by foolondahill17
Chapter Notes: Please excuse Fleur’s accent. Not at all how I do a French accent but I sort of stayed within Rowling’s guidelines and it didn’t come out quite how I would have liked it to.
Chapter Two – Blank Canvass:
–I wonder if he goes where we go.†Her voice was soft and contemplative. It was wispy, as if it might blow away at the slightest breath of wind and hid something of a musical quality.
Dean looked up. Dawn was seeping through the windows, brightening quickly to full morning. –What?†he asked Luna, who was kneeling on the sofa beside him. Her back was to the room and she was looking out the window, to the sun rising above the ocean and over the cliff Shell Cottage rested on.
–Dobby,†Luna explained, and answered her own question, –He’s an elf, but magical creatures aren’t like other creatures are they? He has a soul. I’m sure he’s there. I’m sure he’s happy.â€
Dean had never heard it so put. He stared at Luna and she didn’t seem to sense his gaze. She was disheveled. Her robes had faded to a washed out, blurred gray color. He wondered if she had had access to a change of clothes there -- at Malfoy Manner. Probably not.
He wondered how long she had been there. It must have been terrifying. There hadn’t seemed to be any hint of hope in the cellar. Her whole being seemed faded, bleached from lack of joy and sunlight. Dean wondered if that was why she was so soaking in the scene outside the window.
–I’m sure he is.†Dean heard his voice answer her. They were alone in the sitting room. Fleur was in the kitchen. Bill had hastily followed her. Dean could hear their anxious muttering even through the closed door. Harry, Ron, and Hermione were upstairs, talking to Griphook and Ollivander.
Dean didn’t understand any of this. He didn’t understand the twisting riddles and cryptic hints. He didn’t understand what Harry, Ron, and Hermione needed to talk to the others about. Dean had been hiding in the wilderness for more than eight months, basically cut off from anything regarding the world -- this world. He didn’t understand the war.
–Yes,†said Luna happily, smiling as the sun broke the edge of the cliff and ignited her face. Her large, orb-like eyes glinted from the touch of sunlight, appearing as if they were two miniature suns of her own.
Her skin looked almost transparent in the sudden douse of full light. She was thin, almost sickly. Dark shadows were beneath her eyes. Her hair was straggly and tangled. Half-healed scabs ran down her face. Her hands, grasping the back of the sofa, were thin and frail looking. Her veins stood out against the back of her fists in protruding, blue-tinted banks. Dean wondered how long it had been since she’d eaten.
–Are you hungry?†he asked. He was. It had been longer than he could recall since he tasted something other than what was scrounged up on the trail. It was odd to be in a house again, to be sitting on a well-cushioned seat. As soon as he thought of this Dean felt incredibly sleepy.
–Yes, thank you,†said Luna simply, not taking her eyes off the rising sun. Dean wondered if it hurt her eyes, so unaccustomed to light as they must be.
Dean stood from the sofa. He walked across the sitting room, noticing his legs were oddly stiff. He wasn’t used to casually loping through carpeted rooms. He wasn’t used to humanity.
He reached the kitchen door and slipped it gently open. He saw Bill and Fleur within and immediately remembered he should have knocked. Their murmured voices were cut off as they heard the door creak. They turned to look at him.
–I’m sorry,†said Dean hastily. He was curiously embarrassed. –I didn’t mean to intrude -- don’t mean to intrude. Thank you -- by the way -- for everything.†He didn’t know what he was doing. Bill and Fleur looked at him, questioning but patient. Dean didn’t remember how to talk to anyone who were not goblins, humans who were not -- Dirk…or Ted. –I can’t appreciate more -- I can’t tell you how much this means. I didn’t know what was going to happen to us back at the Malfoy’s --â€
–Pleese,†cut in Fleur smoothly. Her voice was rich and throaty. Dean recognized her pointedly from the Triwizard Tournament. She was still beautiful, one of the reasons he had found it so difficult to form his words. –Do not mention eet, Dean. We are ‘appy to do anything we can.â€
–Thank you,†said Dean again, feeling breathless. He turned to Bill instead; perhaps it would make it easier. –We -- Luna and I -- not to intrude -- but we were wondering if you had anything to eat….â€
Fleur’s eyes widened in horrified hospitality. –Oh, of course, Dean. I apologize for not theenking of eet myself. Anything you want.†She began bustling about the kitchen, gathering things into her arms. She moved rhythmically. Her silver sheet of hair swung across her back in steady pulses.
–Thank you,†Dean breathed. –Please, no trouble. Let me help --â€
Bill smiled at him in a way that spoke of camaraderie. –Don’t worry about it, Dean. You can tell Luna to come to the table. You two have been through enough.â€
Dean thanked them again and was relieved to leave. He went back to Luna, who had not moved from the window. Curiously he didn’t feel with her as he had felt with Bill and Fleur. With Luna there wasn’t much pressure of conversation.
–They’re getting us something to eat,†said Dean. Luna didn’t stir. –They said we could come to the table. Luna?â€
–Alright,†Luna turned only to flash him an appreciative smile, and then looked back to the sun. –It’s beautiful,†she said.
Dean stared out the window. The sun touched the blades of grass, glinting in stripes of silver. It had been a long time since Dean had noticed things like that. He used to see things of beauty easily. The war had got him out of practice.
–It is,†he whispered.
–I’ll come to the table in a bit, Dean. I want to remember.†Dean felt something twist painfully in his stomach at the thought of what Luna’s words might imply. Remember because she had almost forgotten, locked up in that lightless hole. Dean had never known Luna well, but he knew enough that she without sunlight was as unthinkable as the sky without the color blue.
–Alright,†he said, but lingered a bit to watch out the window too. He wanted, too….
Fleur called that the tea was ready. Dean tore himself away from the window. Luna jumped lightly off the sofa. –It hasn’t changed,†she said offhandedly. Dean wondered if she meant the sun.
They took seats around the spindly legged table. Everything in Shell Cottage was light and thin, airy to embrace the scenery around it. Nothing was heavy or dark colored. Everything seemed touched by the sunrise and the salt in the air. Fleur brought them steaming cups of tea and a platter of rolls.
Dean grabbed a fistful, suddenly ravenous. The smell of whatever else Fleur was cooking was wafting from beneath the door on a tantalizing stream. He tore into the bread with his teeth and chewed it, washing it down with a gulp of scalding tea. It hurt his throat, going down. The tea was too hot and the bits of unchewed crust scraped his flesh but Dean didn’t care. He took another bight.
Across the table from him, Luna was picking her roll apart with her fingers. She ate the pieces carefully and methodically, punctuated by gentle sips of her tea.
–It isn’t infusion of Gurdyroot by I suppose it’s passable,†Luna chirped. Dean smiled at her uncertainly through his mouthful of bread.
The kitchen door swung back open and Fleur and Bill came out, laden with bowls of stew. They served Luna and Dean and then took seats at the table themselves. For a moment there was silence. Dean was lost to anything but the food. All of it was light and hardly satisfying, but anything was better than scorched mushroom and underdone salmon. The flavors were almost all too rich. The broth was too sweet. The meet was too spicy. He almost gagged on the rush of unfamiliar tastes.
Bill reminded him to slow down enough to breathe.
After three bowls of stew Dean sat back in his chair. He wasn’t full. He felt as if he could keep eating for days, but he’d been reminded again that he was in a house. This was civilization, not the woods.
There was the light sound of scuffling from the floor above them. Eyes were drawn to the ceiling.
–What do you reckon they’re doing up there?†said Dean without thinking.
–I don’t know,†said Bill almost mournfully. There was a paused and then Bill added abruptly, –So, what’s your story, Dean? How did you get caught? How long have you been with Harry?â€
Dean cleared his throat. He struggled to collect his thoughts. He knew explanations would be asked for but he hadn’t been quite prepared. He hadn’t expected it to come so quickly. Everything seemed to be passing so quickly.
Carefully, he began. He recounted what had happened to him, feeling oddly detached, as though he was telling a well-memorized bedtime story and not actual events. Actually, living, breathing, colorized memories.
He spoke of getting word from Seamus about how bad the Ministry had gotten. He received warning not to turn himself in for Muggle-born registration. He’d left his step-father, mother, and sisters, and set out on his own. Originally he had aimed to get out of the country.
He had gotten lost. He hadn’t enough food or money. He didn’t know how safe it was to use magic. He was unaware of how dire the situation with Muggle-borns was, how serious the Ministry was about rounding them up and what they were doing to them once they were caught.
Dean had gotten caught by Snatchers about four weeks in.
–They didn’t seem to be too bright,†he explained. He carefully looked at his empty stew bowl. The white porcelain was stained with strips of tomato base broth. Dark green shards of sage stuck to the walls. –I managed to stun two before they got a hold of me. I kept hold of my wand -- I think they might have broken one or two of my ribs. It was then when I ran into Ted Tonks.â€
A shadow seemed to cross Bill’s face, half of which was covered in tightly stretched, glossy scars. Dean looked away.
–He jumped out of the bushes and distracted the snatchers enough to let me get out of the arms of the one who was holding me. I don’t know where he came from. He must have heard us struggling, must have figured it was a Muggle-born. He could have just walked away. He didn’t need to help --†Stop. Don’t go into detail. Dean didn’t need to go into details….
–We both managed to finish them off. Ted apparated us away because my chest was really starting to hurt. I don’t know. I guess that made me black out because the next thing I knew I had woken up on the ground with Ted’s jacket over me and my ribs repaired. I don’t know what would have happened if Ted hadn’t shown up. He probably saved my life, not for the last time, either --â€
Dean stopped.
He coughed and continued.
–We traveled together for about five days before we met up with Dirk Cresswell. He’d joined with two goblins, Griphook,†Dean nodded to the ceiling, –and Gornuck. We -- it felt safer in a pack, but we were easier to track so we had several more brushes with Snatchers after that. Some of them were just petty treasure hunters and easy to avoid, but then there were other groups much more dangerous -- like the one from last night.†Had it honestly just been that last night?
–Eventually we ran into a really bad group. It was -- it was after Christmas.†It was getting more difficult to talk. Dean cleared his throat again, staring fixedly at his bowl, his spoon, his crumb scattered napkin. –They were using -- they were using killing curses because something had come out about dead --†he coughed again, –dead or alive, same price as long as you brought back the body.â€
The table was silent. He thought Fleur might have been sniffling. –They --†Dean’s voice was not his own. It was oddly high-pitched and unwieldy. He could barely force the words up his throat. –They got Ted. Dirk and I got away with the goblins. We -- we couldn’t…. there wasn’t anything we could do. Killing curse, straight to the chest. There wasn’t anything we could do --â€
Dean felt his eyes begin to burn. It was funny, it had been months and he hadn’t ever cried. All of a sudden the wound felt so fresh, so raw. Ted was lying on the ground in front of him, eyes widened in shock and heart unbeating.
–We managed for about a month after that.†Dean forced himself to continue. –Then we ran into another group. They got Gornuck and Dirk -- It was hard after that. We needed food. We were getting careless. Griphook and I basically just pranced into the arms of the snatchers from last night. We were on our way back to the Ministry when something led the group right to Harry. That -- that’s just about it.â€
Dean finished. He breathed deeply, trying to ease the tension in his throat. There was a clattering of footsteps on the stairs and Dean looked up as Harry, Ron, and Hermione passed across the kitchen door. Harry nodded but the trio continued to walk and there was a slam as they left through the front door.
–Something’s wrong,†said Luna. –Did you see Harry’s face? Something about his eyes. It happened in the cellar, too.â€
Everyone looked at her.
–Didn’t you notice?†she said.
–What about you, Luna?†said Bill. Something about his voice reminded Dean of a tone one might use at the bed of someone sick or not completely mentally sound, something soothing and breathing of calm. –What happened to you after Christmas? We heard from Ginny how they took you at Kings Cross.â€
Luna seemed to stare at all three of them at once as she began, –Not much, really. They brought me to the Malfoy’s straightaway. Ollivander was there. They asked me some questions. I don’t think I told them anything. I hadn’t anything really to tell them, anyway.â€
Dean felt his stomach twisting. Luna said it so matter-of-factly. She seemed serenely unconcerned. Bill looked troubled.
–I should like to get home soon,†Luna continued. –Daddy must be worried.†Bill didn’t say anything. He exchanged a look with his wife which Luna held in innocent disregard. Dean thought the silence was pressing, significant somehow, and looming.
–What about Ginny?†said Dean, wanting some sort of distraction and falling upon something that had preyed upon his mind for months, but was reminded of it suddenly by Bill’s red hair. He had never quite realized just how many brothers Ginny had had. –I heard something about her from Dirk and the goblins. They mentioned you, too, Bill. It was early on in the year, something about her at Hogwarts --â€
–Oh that,†said Bill, –that wasn’t too bad. She and Neville, you were there two, Luna, I think -- it was something about them sneaking in to steal from Snape. They only got detention. We’ve been getting stories like that all year. Admittedly they’ve been getting darker…Snape has been starting to crack down hard on troublesome students.â€
–Dumbledore’s Army, still recruiting,†said Luna happily.
Dean felt a grin spread across his face almost unwillingly. –Brilliant,†he said.
Bill smiled but didn’t seem convinced.
–Now zat you ‘ave eaten you should get some rest,†said Fleur gently, beginning to gather up their dishes. –You must be exhausted.â€
Dean nodded right away, because it was true.
–But it’s light out,†said Luna unexpectedly. –It’s morning.â€
A smile flickered uneasily across Fleur’s face, –Zen, by all means, you may do as you pleese.â€
Luna smiled happily and stood from the table, –Thank you for the food. It was good. I’ll have to get you some fresh-water plimpies some time. I’m going to go outside.†She flounced away and disappeared with another opening and closing of the front door.
–What about you, Dean?†said Bill, –No offense but you look bloody awful. I can imagine some sleep would feel good.â€
Dean smiled and stood. –Great,†he said. Fleur led him upstairs and through a doorway into a room. He collapsed onto the bed there, closed his eyes, and was immediately lost to all but pleasant darkness.
–Come on.†Dean didn’t want to. He wanted to fall to his knees. He wanted to stop running, to sleep, to cry….
–Hurry up.†No. No Dean couldn’t. He couldn’t go another step. He couldn’t go another day, another night reliving the flashes of green light, the crows of triumph that meant another Muggle-born had been hit, was dead….
–Come on, son.†Stop. Let him alone. Let him fall to his knees. Let him sleep. Let him die…
–Blast it, son! They’re catching up!†Let them. Let them catch up. Let the race be over. Dean would be glad, glad to stop running, to let them get him….
–Lift your feet, blast you! I can’t do this by myself!â€
Then drop him. Leave him there. Dean was finished, of no more use. Let him stay. Let them find him.
–Almost there.†Dean felt the last of his resolve leave him as they broke upon a clearing. The goblins were there, grabbed hold, and, as a group, they dissaparated in a swirling torrent of color and sound.
The crack of apparition rebounded in Dean’s head. He awoke with a start.
Light was streaming from the other side of the curtained window. Dean had evidently not been sleeping for very long, unless it was already a new day.
He cautiously untangled himself from the blankets. The bed was too soft; his pillow had left him feeling smothered and with a crick in his neck. It was all so unfamiliar. The air around him felt stale and hot; he was so used to breathing out in the open.
He ran a hand through his hair and realized he was shaking.
–Drink this,†Dirk had said, and pressed something steaming and warm into Dean’s trembling hands. Steady the hand, Dean. Can’t draw if you haven’t got steady hands
–Drink it, son,†said Dirk again, and Dean became aware that he was only staring into the steaming liquid’s depth. –Make you feel better.†Dirk sat across from the fire, holding his own steaming mug.
The goblins sat in the shadow outside of the circle of flickering light. They were speaking in low voices together, perhaps about the day, perhaps about how the hadn’t fought, perhaps about how this was a wizard’s war and goblins should stay well enough out of it.
A bit of the hot liquid in Dean’s mug sloshed out and landed on his pants. He hissed in pain at the searing heat.
Dirk coughed at him in a manner that hid amusement.
–To the war, Dean,†said Dirk hoarsely, raising his mug. –It’s not over yet.†His words dripped of bitterness but Dean had weeks ago become accustomed to Dirk’s cynicism. Tonight it only raised sharp awareness the contrast of Ted’s jovial laugh, cheering smile, word of comfort… brought stark consciousness to its absence.
–Died easily, son,†grunted Dirk, –that’s about all we can be thankful for these days.â€
To be sucked so hastily of all life and breath, to be gone so suddenly from the world, gone from consciousness so rapidly you couldn’t even be aware of your leaving, aware that the time to say good-bye had come and went…. No, Dean could not think that as an easy death.
Dean stared into the crackling flames. How do you paint fire? He had never gotten it right. How do you paint a dissipating gas, something that leaps red for a moment and in that same moment is gone -- is smoke? How did he make it glow?
Unconsciously he took a sip of whatever was in his mug. The liquid seared his throat but he gulped it down, taking another draught because it eased his pain and warmed him if only superficially.
You have to feel it, to draw it. You have to understand it, to sympathize with it. Otherwise you’ll never breathe life into it. It will never be real. Even so, Dean thought he’d never be able to select the exact tint of green and yellow, the exact measures of blue and gold that shimmered through the stream of light that had struck Ted in the chest and left him lifeless.
Dean knew that people associated red and black with death, but that wasn’t right. If he should ever sketch the hooded figure he would color him in a robe of green and give him an emerald crown, entwine his claw about a jade encrusted scythe. His eyes, of course, would glint with green-eyed malice.
Dean shook the remaining blankets and haunting memories off of him. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. He felt suddenly the uncontrollable urge to move. He slid on his shoes and stepped quickly out of the room.
The house was silent. Dean crept down the stairs and into the hallway. He walked towards the front door and pushed it open because the outdoors was calling to him. He hadn’t been inside a house for months. It didn’t feel comfortable. Dean hadn’t realized until now that he felt stifled. Nothing felt natural but the clear air, grass beneath his feet, and sky overhead instead of ceiling.
A rush of cool air, breathing of salt and sea, met his face as he stepped through the door. Dean breathed deeply, letting his lungs expand in a wonderful shiver of freedom. The garden in front of him was full of sea grass and large, sand-colored stones. Little white blossoms had erupted at the tips of some of the grass. The colors around him seemed mostly bleached, varying shades of molted browns, greens, and grays.
Dean saw Luna off towards a clump of beach trees that grew away from the cliff. She was kneeling by their trunks, caressing the dirt and grass and leaves as if they were old friends, reacquainting herself with life as Dean would have to do with human company and walls.
–Rest well?†said a companionable voice and Dean turned to see Bill coming around the corner of the cottage.
–Thanks,†said Dean.
Bill ran a hand roughly over his scar-lined face. He looked exhausted and world-weary. –It’s tough, what you kids have been through.â€
Dean looked at him for a moment before replying, –The war’s tough.â€
Bill didn’t answer. He pulled his hand away from his face and looked into the distance. His eyes lighted upon Luna. Dean looked back over and noticed she was lying flat on her stomach, examining a toadstool from a better vantage point.
–Don’t tell her yet,†said Bill quietly, –but her house was found half-way blown apart. No one knows where her father is. They’ve taken him. Possibly Azkaban, possibly worse.â€
Dean didn’t say anything. He didn’t know quite what it was he was supposed to say. He had heard many hard things, innumerable hard things this past year. He felt his stomach sink as if something heavy had been deposited there. Somehow he didn’t like hearing something like this, something that would damage Luna -- especially Luna. She was -- she seemed so innocent. Dean didn’t like to think that she was so affected by the war.
But she was affected by the war, Dean remembered sadly. She had spent over four months locked in a cellar, threatened with death and probably tortured -- although she hadn’t said it in so many words. Luna had gone through plenty, had seen plenty, and had lost plenty.
Dean supposed they had all been innocents once.
Bill chatted off-handedly for a moment longer before drifting away. Harry, Ron, and Hermione seemed nowhere in sight. Dean could hear Fleur singing softly from the back of the house. His eyes drifted back over to Luna, whom had stood up and was gently stroking the bark of a beach tree.
Without thinking Dean began walking towards her.
–Hello, Dean,†said Luna without turning around.
–Hello,†said Dean.
–Look at that.†Luna pointed to the sky, peeping from between the branches of the trees.
–What about it?†he said.
–It’s so open. No walls.â€
Dean didn’t know what to say.
–This is real, isn’t it?†said Luna. –I used to have dreams like this.â€
–It’s real,†said Dean.
–Good,†said Luna. –I wouldn’t have wanted you to tell me if it wasn’t.â€
Dean watched her silently. She pulled a branch down close to her face and stroked the budding green leaves.
–They were always nice dreams,†Luna continued. –The worst thing about them was waking up.â€
They were standing on the very edge of the forest, in plain sight of the cottage. It was odd, to be standing out in the open like this. Had Dean still been in hiding, he would have hustled further into the coverage of the trees.
–It’s sad that Dobby died,†said Luna. –It would have been nice to thank him in person -- in elf. It’s sad that the only time I was able to meet him he was gone, and then dead. I’m glad he rescued me.â€
–I’m glad he rescued you too, Luna,†said Dean. He felt uncomfortable. –It must have been hard for you, being shut up in that cellar for all those months.â€
–Ollivander had been there longer,†said Luna simply. –I’m happier that he was rescued. I wouldn’t have minded staying as long as I knew he was safe.â€
Luna drifted into silence. Dean leaned against a tree, turning so that he could look out over the low wall that separated the cottages garden from the cliff’s edge. The sea was moving down below them. He could hear its constant, soothing rush. He could see the mix of blue and dark gray, the white-tipped waves and swirling greens. He made himself stare at it for a long while. Perhaps someday, when he had the time and the war was over -- if the war ever was -- he would try to paint it.
He was truly thankful for the elf that had rescued him. Dean berated himself not to take it for granted, not to ever take anything for granted. Dean could have died -- perhaps should have died had it not been for Dobby. Some nameless creature whom had been looked down upon all his life yet somehow found it in his little being to rescue wizards, his tormentors. Dean did not understand it. It was a sacrifice he could not comprehend.
Someday, too, Dean wanted to paint what it felt to apparate. He wanted to capture the swirl of colors and explosion of sound. He wanted to start with a black canvass and make people see what it felt to be squeezed between the folds of time and space, something otherwise incomprehensible.
It had been so long, too long, since Dean had held a paintbrush in his hand, a pencil between his fingers, and stared at an empty page. His hands ached for the chance to etch a picture onto paper, to create a landscape out of nothing. A part of him, however, was afraid he had forgotten how.
Dean’s mind flew back to third-year Defense Against the Dark Arts. The boggart had transformed into a severed hand. It wasn’t that Dean was particularly afraid of gruesomely detached body parts; the hand was his -- Dean’s. It was his right hand. It was his drawing hand. It represented so much more than a painful injury, but a loss of a dream, the termination of a talent and a passion.
Dean didn’t want to take the chance, to hold pen in hand and realize that fear had somehow become reality. Beside him Luna was on the ground again, sitting cross-legged and humming as she poked at a worm unearthed from the ground by the tree roots. Her voice seemed to float through the spaces between air and time -- as if it was coming from inside Dean’s own head.
Time passed. It was odd, to not be moving. Dean was used to changing positions often, while being on the run. It made it more difficult for people to track you. Always moving, always changing. There had been no chance to become acquainted.
Now Dean found it vaguely disconcerting to be in the same place for more than a week. He realized he must have once been used to it, this steady schedule, never ending system of waking, eating, talking, not moving. It was amazing how quickly he had fallen out of the habit, amazing how difficult he was finding it to get back in.
He was restless. He spent most of his time out-doors, detached from human company that demanded conversation and adaptability. He craved the open air and smell of green things mixed with the sea. He paced the gardens, explored the edges of the forest, and ambled over the broken cliff-sides, because he couldn’t not move. He needed the bounce in his step, the crunch of his feet upon the ground to keep him sane.
Often times he joined Luna, because she demonstrated the same pent-up desire to be among the living, not the man-made. Harry, Ron, and Hermione were rarely around. They spent much of their time in the cottage. They were planning something with Griphook but trying to keep it all on the underhand.
The world seemed to slow down, minutes turned to hours, and Dean realized all that had been missing this past year. He had not had time to reflect before; the urgency of the present had always so outweighed the urgency of the past -- or future. He realized he missed his mother, father, and sisters. He missed Seamus and Neville. He missed the teachers. He missed the hallways.
–I never thought I would,†said Dean to Luna, one evening while they had stopped their wanderings to lean against the wall overlooking the ocean. The sun was hanging low in the sky, packing for its journey around the world but not quite departing yet. –Miss Hogwarts, I mean. I always hated that place -- the rules and the homework. I couldn’t wait to graduate. Funny, now it’s the only place I’d really like to be.â€
–It isn’t really, Dean,†said Luna. –It’s different. Hogwarts isn’t the place it was, the place you wish you were.â€
–I know,†said Dean. –But I -- what I meant was -- I wish it was the same. I wish it wasn’t changed and that I was there.â€
–I think I know what you mean,†said Luna. Her face was turned to the setting sun so that Dean could only see her soft smile spread across half her face. Slowly she had begun to regain the color in her cheeks and opaqueness of her skin. She looked almost whole now, almost untouched. But not quite.
Luna was a white canvass, had been anyway. Now she was spattered with the ink of war: the dark blue of tragedy, the gray of pain, green of labor, the black from loss of innocence, and the red of cruelty, death, and courage. She’d once been pure and white, unblemished, a blank page but now she was -- was marred.
But it was beautiful, that masterpiece of brushstrokes. The merging of colors left something raw and rare, and wholly beautiful -- a landscape far more magnificent then Dean could ever hope to paint. And from beneath the splatters of color, the scratches, the blots, and scribbles, a bit of white occasionally shown through, startling and illuminating: a bit of sun from a sky dispersing of rain.
–I think Daddy must be alright,†said her voice. They had finally gotten around to telling her about her house and father.
It had happened unintentionally, which meant she had mostly guessed. Harry, Ron, and Hermione revealed that they had been present when it had happened, had not been able to shed much light on subject, but had at least given Luna something resembling information.
–I hope he is, Luna.â€
–I know he is. Even if he’s dead he’s alright.â€
The sun continued to sink below the horizon, blushing pink and soft orange on the tips of the waves.
–But I think I would know if he was dead,†Luna continued. –I think I would feel something, don’t you?â€
Dean didn’t know. He had felt something when Ted and Dirk had died, but that had been because he’d seen it, had felt it with gut-wrenching certainty because it had happened right in front of him. He didn’t know if he would feel something otherwise. He believed in connections between people, blood and friendship but nothing mental or spiritual. Maybe he would feel something, maybe he would know, but he wasn’t sure.
–I’m sure he’s alright, Luna.â€
Unconsciously his arm dropped at his side and suddenly her fingers were wrapped in his. Her palm was smooth and warm. He could feel her pulse against his.
–Thank you, Dean,†she said.
It took Dean several weeks before he was able to take a pencil and white sheet of paper down to the cliff. Partly it was because before then he’d not been able to sit still. Slowly the blood in his veins calmed to a trickle, and he found that he could pull his knees up to his chest, nestle a sketch book there, and sit for hours -- painfully sketching each blemish into the white paper.
With a relief that made something in his throat hitch and his hand tremble, Dean realized he still could. His fingers knew the paths well, could remember their vocation almost as if it hadn’t been so long. There was still paper, pencils, and paint. There was still art and beauty. Dean hadn’t lost his hand, hadn’t lost his mind, his imagination. All his fingers were still in working order.
Luna would join him often, sitting motionless while he sketched, or else lying on her stomach and poking at the grass, humming tunelessly but with a sort of disjointed rhythm. It wove in his mind and seemed to bring a kind of comfort, an always changing wave of sound, something that he couldn’t grasp but would always be there.
He’d sit there until the sun disappeared far enough behind the horizon that the darkness made it impossible to see the canvass. Then he and Luna would sit for a moment in the dusk, feeling the cool night air and breathing the salty breeze splashed on their faces.
One night, when the last orange glow of the setting sun was fading into the midnight blue of the rest of the sky, Dean laid aside his notebook early. He flipped the cover over the page he was working on and set it to his side on the grass, putting his quill carefully on top.
It was one of the times when Luna was sitting quietly cross-legged at his side. Her face was turned toward the darkening sky, eyes gleaming and lips slightly parted --
And suddenly those lips were on his. His head was turned toward hers, neck twisted so the angle wasn’t so awkward. His arm was behind him, propping him up. Her hair was blowing against his cheek.
She made a slight noise, like the intake of breath, and Dean pulled away. Her eyes were still glistening, now with the reflection of the emerging starts. Her eyebrows were raised, lips still parted. She looked surprised.
Then again, Luna always looked surprised.
–No one’s ever kissed me before, Dean,†she said finally. Her voice was sweet and musical, as it always was. But it sounded matter-of-fact, as well – not gentle or pondering, simply very level. No one has ever kissed me before, as though it was a remark on the weather. It was cloudy out today, Dean.
–What is one to do now?â€
Dean laughed, because she said it so earnestly, but he felt slightly disconcerted. That hadn’t been what he’d expected. He hadn’t been expecting anything at all, really, because he hadn’t been planning on doing that. He didn’t know what had come over him….
He cleared his throat, –I -- I’m sorry, Luna -- I shouldn’t have…should have asked you --â€
–Oh, it’s quite alright,†said Luna. –I didn’t mind. Quite enjoyed it, really.â€
–Oh,†said Dean. He didn’t know how to react to this. He didn’t know -- hadn’t expected -- what had he been thinking? –I’m glad.â€
What kind of a thing was that to say? This wasn’t going at all as it was supposed to -- shouldn’t have happened in the first place….
–Are you good at kissing?†said Luna. –I expect you are, because of all of it you did with Ginny. I was probably terrible.â€
–No you weren’t,†said Dean hastily. –I mean -- I haven’t had too much…practice.â€
–You’re just being modest,†said Luna.
Dean shifted so that he wasn’t looking at her. He was suddenly pointedly uncomfortable.
–So,†said Luna. –I’m still a bit fuzzy on the formalities: what now? Or do we just sit here not talking and pretend it didn’t happen? Or maybe do we hold hands? That seems appropriate, doesn’t it?â€
Then her fingers were entwined in his again. Dean tried to quiet his squirming stomach, tried to get a hold on his brain -- which seemed to have taken flight and scattered to the winds. He didn’t know what he was supposed to say. Even if he did he couldn’t say it because his tongue seemed to have tied itself into a knot.
Thankfully Luna proceeded, –You’re a good friend, Dean. I’m glad I’ve gotten to know you over these past weeks. I never knew you were so nice, before. Ginny described you as a brainless oaf once, and because I didn’t know any different I believed her. I think she was upset after the breakup, though, so I wouldn’t worry. She probably doesn’t think you’re a brainless oaf anymore.â€
–Oh, good.†Somehow Dean’s voice slipped up his throat and somehow that was what he said. Somewhere in a corner of his mind not affected by this madness he was laughing at himself in wry, blackly ironic humor.
–But I think maybe we can just be friends, you know?†Luna’s voice continued. –I don’t think war is a very good time start a relationship -- but thank you, anyway. It was nice of you to think of me.â€
–Sure. Okay. That’s -- that’s fine. I’m glad we’re friends, too, Luna.†And after that Dean couldn’t make any more sounds come out of his lips. He was very thankful when Luna didn’t say anything else, either. She started humming again, still holding his hand.
Now that the pounding in his brain had quieted, Dean had the time to think. He still didn’t know what had come over him. Luna -- he’d never thought of Luna like that…never really even thought of her at all up until these past weeks. He was strangely relieved that Luna didn’t seem like she’d thought of him much either -- like that.
He supposed he had kissed her just because it had -- had felt somehow right. He’d always gone with his gut where those things were concerned -- which was probably why the thing with Ginny had turned out to be such a fiasco.
They’d both been a bit hot-headed, had jumped the gun, let their hormones take over, not looked where they were going to see the roadblock. He had been happy when Ginny had finally ended it. It had taken him a while to realize that, but eventually he discovered that he was actually perfectly happy with how it turned out. He was glad Ginny had found herself someone else a bit more level-headed. After living in the same dormitory with him for six years, Dean knew that Harry really was an okay guy.
But Luna -- now that he stopped to think about it quietly, with her hand wrapped in his but at least with no declarations of love, he discovered that he honestly didn’t want to be in a relationship with her either. She was sweet and understood his art, touched him mostly because they were both alone, lost, and so bloody confused about the war, but under that she was still -- well she was still a bit weird.
Dean didn’t understand her. It might have been selfish and little bit pig-headed but he couldn’t ever imagine bringing her home to his parents. He’d be too embarrassed by their confusion. Merlin, he couldn’t imagine bringing her to his friends. Seamus would laugh. Everyone would laugh, Parvati, Lavender -- behind his back when they were sure he wasn’t looking -- but Seamus would laugh to his face.
He had kissed Luna, he supposed, when all the other things had been sorted through, because she had been there. They were both alone. She was the first girl he had come into contact with in months, first girl to be so close to him, to speak to him, to touch him in merlin-had-it-been-that-long. There hadn’t been any reason not to kiss her. And as she hadn’t minded. Dean wasn’t concerned. Hadn’t anything to feel guilty about. She’d even said she’d enjoyed it.
Just then Fleur’s voice rang out from the cottage, –Dean, Luna, what are you doing een the dark? Come eento the house!â€
Luna sighed. –Come on, Dean. I guess we’ve got to go. ‘Til next time.†It was almost as if she spoke to the sun that had just sunk below the horizon.
Chapter Endnotes: Next chapter: Neville and the Battle of Hogwarts. It might have been Neville’s first kiss but it wasn’t Luna’s. Dean had got there first and now Neville felt strangely done, as if he’d quite like to forget about the battle and creep up to his dormitory, climb into bed, perhaps shed a few tears….