Dean had fallen to a new low.

He was well aware of that as he looked back down at the letter his sister Ella had sent him earlier that day. He had felt stupid after rereading it ten times, but no more so when he had sent the first letter that warranted this as Ella's reply:

His sister was fourteen.

Ella had more understanding about the concept of love than Dean did and she had not started dating yet. Despite being the youngest, however, she was more realistic with her approach to life in comparison to her older siblings; it was one of the reasons why Dean was closest to her, but also because Ella would never hesitate to tell him when he was being a twat.

And, Merlin, he was being a twat.

Dean had not felt heartache like this before. Mostly, he knew, it was because he had never felt like this about anyone before. He had dated, of course; he had gotten his feelings hurt when things did not work out, but the sting of those failed relationships had never caused his own magic to project itself without his permission. Now here he was, constant rain cloud over his head because he was absolutely gutted at the idea that Luna might not want him.

For a sliver of a second, Dean wished he had never told her he loved her, but the thought faded out of his head at the same speed he had thought it. He could regret anything in his life, but never loving Luna Lovegood.

It was the only thing that had only made sense to him.

The truth was also that Ella was responsible for Dean even coming to the conclusion that he liked Luna more than a friend.

While Dean had been polite to Luna during D.A. meetings, he had not been inclined to know more about her. She was odd, yes, but in those times he had been more preoccupied with his growing crush on Ginny to turn and look at Luna twice. Then he and Ginny burnt out as quickly as the flame had bit lit.

Then Voldemort and his Death Eaters had gained power and Dean had no other choice than to go underground.

When he was on the run, Luna's face did circle his head multiple times, but it was one of the many. Dean hoped she was alive; that she was staying strong, doing the right thing, and knew when it was instrumental for her to keep her head down.

He never expected to find her as one of the many hostages kept in the Malfoys' cellar.

War changed everything. Dean just did not expect one of those being how he saw Luna Lovegood. Down in that cellar, she was a beacon of light. All black and blue from being beaten for information, but she kept choosing hope. It fueled not only her will to live and fight, but it urged everyone else to do the same, too. So, with a hand in hers, Dean ran into battle and raged, raged against enemy fire.

When they won, Dean looked for Luna first. It was Ella, however, who told Dean that Luna was the only thing he kept looking toward thereafter.

Letting out a tired sigh, Dean set his sister's letter down on the coffee table before him. His hands came to his face, rubbing at his eyes. Of course Ella was right; just as Hermione and Ginny had been when they advised him to give Luna her space.

When she was ready, Luna would find him. Dean trusted that.

He was starting to pull himself up from the armchair in his and Luna's chamber when there was a knock on the door. His heart picked up thinking that his magic had summoned her, but he knew better than that. Luna had left him a note telling him she would be having a sleepover with Cho Chang at Ravenclaw Tower.

"Lavender?" Dean frowned at the blonde on the other side of his door. After years of insomniacs gathering in the Gryffindor common room past midnight, he was used to seeing her so late. For a moment he thought they were back there, a small group huddled around the fireplace as they whispered jokes to each other and traded sweets.

"Dean," Lavender grumbled in the same tone he had used. She adjusted the pillow and blanket in her arms, narrowing her eyes at him. "Well, let me in. The Head Boy is lurking about a few corridors away."

Despite letting out a snort at her demand, he still opened the door and gestured for her to enter his chamber. "Why are you here?"

"I'm miserable," she stated before taking a seat in the armchair Dean had left vacant. Lavender looked up to find him rolling dark eyes at her. "It's your best mate's fault."

"And somehow that makes it mine, too?" asked Dean as he crossed his arms over his Puddlemere United jersey. "You know, I've been saying for years that I'm not responsible for the mess Seamus gets himself into. He's a big lad."

"He's a big idiot," Lavender corrected, dropping her pillow so she could reach forward and take the letter on the coffee table.

Dean snatched Ella's note before Lavender could read its entirety. She scoffed at his reaction, but did not press the matter as she wiggled in the armchair to find a more comfortable position.

"I can't help with that either," he finally said. "Sorry."

"No one can help with that. His mum's tried, I'm sure."

"Lavender—"

"Don't try to kick me out, Dean," she interrupted before his annoyance fully came out. "I need a place to sleep tonight. We got into another fight and I had to leave."

Dean let out another exhausted breath before choosing to sit on the armrest of his couch. "McGonagall ordered him to fix things with you. How did things get worse?"

Lavender shrugged, biting down on her tongue instead of cursing Seamus out again. Although Dean knew she wanted to, he was also aware that she was trying to contain her anger, too. McGonagall had not only spoken to Seamus regarding his behavior, but had admonished Lavender for hers, too.

"Things can't get better when someone is forcing you to do it," she mumbled, pulling her blanket up to her chin just as she brought her knees up to her chest. "He didn't apologize, but said he understood why I was a bitch. I'm not a bitch—"

"You threw a mini-fridge at him, Lav."

"Fine," she conceded loudly. "I am a bitch. But I only started to lash out when he kept humiliating me. So, really, it's all Seamus' fault. As always."

Dean looked down at Ella's letter in his left hand. He went through her neat penmanship in his head before he cleared his throat. "Someone told me once that romance requires a little space and understanding for it to turn into anything good."

Lavender blinked away from his face to the parchment he was clutching. While the war had changed a lot about her, Dean still saw flickers of her nosy self peeking through, curiosity glittering bright in her eyes.

He laughed, stuffing the letter into the pocket of his pajama bottoms. "Seamus is a good one. You know that. It's why you fancy him. I'm not saying he can't be a dickhead, because I know he most definitely can be, but all of this is fucked, all right? He's dealing with this marriage law as best he can."

Dean did not expect Lavender to agree with him instantaneously, but the last thing he thought he would see were tears brimming in her eyes.

"What if the best he comes up with is to settle for me?" whispered Lavender as she held her blanket tighter against herself. "I know he has to because of the law, but I don't want to see the resignation on his face, Dean. I can't be second best anymore."

"Who said you were?"

Tears splashed onto the top of Lavender's cheeks. Dean looked to the door of his chamber, hoping Luna would appear and she could help with the heartache leaking out of Lavender. When she didn't come, he knelt in front of his friend, his hands wiping at her skin.

"Seamus visited me in St. Mungo's every day after I woke up from Greyback's attack," Lavender muttered. "I was a mess—inside and out. I was scared the Healers wouldn't be able to fix me. No one ever really recovers from a werewolf attack, do they? But whenever I looked at Seamus it was like he was still seeing me. When they left me with just this scar...He told me I was still pretty."

Dean ran his thumb across the jagged line closest to her temple. "You are, Lav."

She let out a laugh that still sounded like a sob to his ears. "I know it's absurd to hold on to that because at least I made it out alive when so many others didn't, but it was important. It helped me believe I was going to be okay despite the world being so different."

"Seamus will never look at you like you're less than who you have always been. I promise."

Lavender reached for Dean's hand now nestled against her left cheek. She wrapped her fingers around his wrist before dipping them into his palm. "Maybe. But you can't guarantee that he'll look at me and see someone who he can love."

"Wish I could." Dean squeezed her fingers, offering her a smile now. "But what I can guarantee you is somewhere to sleep. Luna's staying at Ravenclaw Tower tonight, so you can take our bed."

"Oh, Dean, no. I can't let you sleep on the couch," Lavender groaned as if she was going to refuse the offer, but she still pulled herself up, bringing him along with her. "I'm intruding. I should be the one to—"

Lavender's words died at the tip of her tongue when she caught a glimpse of Dean's warm, brown eyes. She had seen them before, of course; he was the first person to extend kindness to anyone he came upon, but for a moment it looked like it only existed to be a salve to her wounds.

It was the only reason why, if for just a selfish second, she thought it was a good idea to press her lips against Dean's.

Draco almost killed Blaise.

While there have been plenty of other times throughout their knowing each other that Draco had indeed wanted or came close to performing the act, none had come quite as close as this exact moment.

He had been coming into his chambers, his left shoulder slackening in an attempt to gain relief from the heavy schoolbag he carried when a wand had been pointed at Draco's face. Disoriented by the sudden flash of Lumos against his eyes, Draco felt the terror of war crawling back up his spine. For a dreadful second, he was not at Hogwarts; Draco was back at Malfoy Manor, trying to pass undetected in the shadows so the Devil and his Demons did not catch him in the harsh, yellow light, eager to have the terrified teenager join in their acts of evil.

Draco felt the Killing Curse forming at the tip of his tongue, his skin cold, but chest on fire, but then that flash of Lumos took over all of the chamber, revealing Blaise snuggled into the couch, grinning.

"Dickhead," muttered Draco, his heart finding rhythm again as he put his wand down with a shaking hand. "What the hell are you doing here? I thought you finally made up with Chang."

"Oh, I did," Blaise laughed, grin still in place as he stretched out across the furniture, purposely leaving no space for Draco to sit. "In fact, we're getting on so well, I walked her to Ravenclaw Tower so she could have a little sleepover with some of her house-mates. Something about an orgy circle—fine, a boring study circle or whatever," he corrected when Draco raised a sharp brow him. "Anyway, stuffy Ravenclaws aren't important. What was interesting to me was seeing you—seeing you in a dimly lit corridor, pressed up against a witch that definitely did not look like Granger."

Draco dropped himself on an armchair, throwing his feet up on the center table where Hermione's books were now apparently going to stay. "Have you any proof of these allegations, Zabini?"

"Mind yourself," Blaise then said, his grin not wavering, but Draco caught his emerald eyes narrowing at him. "You don't want old McGonagall to catch you feeling up other witches that aren't your betrothed."

Toeing off a shoe before kicking it over at Blaise, Draco said, "Maybe I was whispering into someone's ear tonight, but I'm not a cheater. I'm not thrilled about joining Granger in holy matrimony, but I respect the circumstance."

"Harmless flirting then?"

"Why do you care, Zabini? You're not exactly anyone to be preaching about fidelity. Isn't that why Daphne Greengrass broke up with you Sixth Year, on account of your wandering hands?"

Blaise's grin was now completely gone. "Daphne broke up with me because her parents became Blood Traitors. She started cutting ties early on. I was the first to go."

Draco looked down at his left forearm. His sleeves were still rolled down, perfectly buttoned around his wrists so it would not accidentally scrunch up and let anyone see the mess he hid under it.

"Made the right choice, didn't they?"

"Yeah," said Draco, looking back at his friend. "Better Blood Traitors than Death Eaters."

"You reckon that's why Pansy has finally warmed up to Weasley? Better being on the winning side than fighting a lost cause?"

For a moment, when Pansy had arrived at the Gryffindor table and kissed the Weasel, Draco had thought that maybe she had listened to his advice: it would do all of them right to start adhering to the new way of things because there was no Dark Lord to cower behind, no pure bloodline that would secure their positions and freedom. Although part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, the Parkinsons were hardly one of the richest or most influential, but the title was enough to make a young Pansy declare herself a princess. Arrogant as she was, Draco knew Pansy would not make it now without stripping herself from that old mindset.

So, yes, he thought Pansy had figured out what she needed to do, but then Draco kept seeing her with Weasley. She was still rolling her eyes at him, but there was no malice behind her dark eyes. She watched him the same way her hand moved along his back—gently, tentatively. And when Weasley turned to her, blue eyes heavy with nightmares, his hand against her cheek touched her just the same—willingly, desperately.

"Pansy might've gotten more than she originally thought," Draco said finally.

"Good or bad?"

Draco and Blaise looked at each other and knew what the answer was, but chose not to voice it. They cared for Pansy; as aggravating as she was on her best days, they had grown up with her, shared laughs with her, watched as she spurned the world, but would stand tall, loyal beside them, never wavering regardless of what people thought. While they were completely capable of wishing her a secure, safe future, neither Draco or Blaise were courageous enough to say it aloud.

Not when the implication would have them searching deep—past their sins, nightmares, and old battle wounds to face how wrong they had been. How wrong their parents had been to shape them this way, prejudice, hatred, and arrogance etched in every atom of their being so that they would never know pure happiness.

The possibility of that was a childish daydream then; they had all been more than aware that nothing wholesome could be born when evil lurked. Post-War, they knew the idea of genuine happiness would never be granted to people like them, people with their hands stained red.

"Daphne's betrothed isn't at school," Blaise then said, pulling himself to sit up. He narrowed his eyes at a wrinkle on the knee of his trousers.

Draco didn't say anything. After Hermione had collapsed when the sorting hat had called his name for her, he had been pulled out of the Great Hall by the Headmistress, leaving the Minister to continue. She had not said it, but Draco knew the old hag had been worried he would destroy the Great Hall at the result—or by the very least duel Harry and Ron because of it. Whatever couples were formed after his own sorting, Draco didn't know.

"When I was called out for Cho, I thought whatever chance there was for Daphne and I...It's good he doesn't know her history, the bloke. It'll give her the chance to really start over again."

"You're all right with Chang, then?"

"What's the point of not being all right with it?" Blaise did not turn to Draco. He rubbed at the crease on his knee, emerald eyes concentrating hard until a bit of a nonverbal smoothed out his trousers. When he did finally look up at his fellow Slytherin, Draco recognized a familiar mask of indifference shooting up around Blaise. "A Ravenclaw through and through, Cho is. Got more emotional baggage than anyone can know, but who doesn't after this war? But I like her. I can make her laugh. Maybe it won't ever be love, but at least we can be friends. That's better than loathing your partner for the rest of your life, right? I mean, isn't that why you and Granger are friends now?"

Draco could not stop the scoff the ran out past his lips. When Blaise raised a brow at him, Draco said, "Do you honestly think Granger and I can be friends? She hates me on a good day. There is too much bad blood between us for there to ever be any sort of understanding. No, Zabini, what I'm doing is playing this right."

"Meaning what exactly?"

"You're smart. Figure it out."

Blaise stood up, knocking some of Hermione's books off the table. "You're paying attention to your father? The man who gave you to the Dark Lord?"

"What do you—?"

"I saw your bloody letter," interjected Blaise, reaching into his pocket. At once, Draco recognized his father's thin, sharp cursive on the crumpled parchment.

"Why the hell are you looking through my things, Zabini?"

"Maybe I was looking for some spare galleons, whatever," Blaise hissed, balling the letter again before stuffing it back into his pocket. "That's not the point. I just thought you were smarter than following the instructions of the one person responsible for the mess you call a life."

Draco extended his hand out for the letter, his arm shaking. When Blaise made no action of pulling it out of his pocket, he hissed back, "What other choice do I have, Zabini? It's up to me to restore the Malfoy name to a shadow of what it used to be. I need Granger for that!"

"Your mother saved Potter's life—"

"You think that's enough?"

"You have Potter your wand—"

"It's not enough!" Draco stood now, too, toe to toe with Blaise. The anger between the two caused the chamber's lights to flicker, magic reeling together so it was at the ready in case either needed a fast nonverbal.

It looked to be heading in the direction, too, but Draco caught himself dragging in air, taking a step back. Blaise was his friend. Some would say his best friend, no less.

"Neither action was motivated out of the goodness of our hearts," Draco said through gritted teeth after a long, tensed minute. "They put me in Azkaban, Zabini. Right after. Even when I had given Potter my wand. My mother, too. We only got out because of Potter and Granger. Don't you see? It's the only way to secure our freedom."

Blaise let out a breath, taking a step back, too, and said, "You're free now, mate."

He started sliding his shoes on when the door of the chamber opened. Hermione barely got a glimpse at the back of Blaise's head and groaned, "Not you again."

Blaise forced a smile on. "Don't worry, I'm going."