Disclaimer: I don't own HP.

"…If this world was perfect,

Then we could make it work;

But I doubt it…"

J. Cole, "Lost Ones"

:Desperado:

Joanna Thomas had long accepted that her eldest son was an anomaly.

Dean had been troublesome even before he entered the world. While his siblings kicked regularly, Dean kicked excessively. While ultrasounds clearly displayed his siblings, Dean insisted hiding within Joanna's womb—and when his presence was detected, doctors suspected he was a twin.

And then, random, unexplained…things started happening when he was a toddler—glasses shattering, objects combusting.

Not to mention that mysterious letter on his eleventh birthday.

Joanna leaned on the archway of her son's door, rubbing her temples tiredly, her lips folded so as to not beat him senseless. Actions did have consequences.

Summer vacation in the Thomas household had been tumultuous. The young wizard had stomped through the house, sneering, tearing the tie from his neck. The first strike had been administered when he locked himself in his bedroom, refusing to join them for dinner. How were they to know the headmaster had been murdered?

The second strike occurred, quite literally, last month when Kregg, fed up with the irrational behavior, sternly told Dean to take his siblings to the park. Dean, in retaliation, popped his lips, only to be backhanded loudly enough to wake the neighbors.

And now, as she watched her son throw an array of chips and sweaters into a bag, Joanna Thomas knew this was the latest.

"What the bloody hell are you doing?" She demanded, drawing herself up to full height and folding her arms.

Dean started and looked at her, eyes emotionless. He very much resembled a wrongfully convicted inmate with nothing to live for. "I'm leaving, mother." This was the umpteenth time he's told her and he was making good on his promise.

A wolf howled in the distance. Dean thought about the Order, wonders if it was a full moon, of how Professor Lupin was coping in the midst of the pandemonium.

He looked so much like his father, sounded so much like his father. That's the same excuse Desmond pulled all those years ago. It was so like Desmond—running out, afraid to face his responsibilities, to be a provider. Joanna just wished she saw the spinelessness before marrying him.

"And where do you propose to go at 3 in the morning?"

"Neverland."

Their eyes flash. Joanna's reflect ire and Dean's, pain.

But Dean refuses to engage in repetitive conversation. There were only so many times he could place the Prophet before them and explain what Death Eaters were. There were only so many ways he could explain the wrinkled letter and why The Muggleborn Registration Commission was out for his blood, that he could slam his fists on the table and scream, "It's not your husband, it's me!" until the veins in his neck protruded. He definitely wasn't a fan of his stepfather. Kregg Thomas, a police officer, only gave Joanna the impression of being concerned for Dean's welfare, but any fool could see it was all for show. Kregg resented Dean, resented pretending to like a kid who wasn't his own, hated his wife's constant adoration of the young man. Kregg took it upon himself to dictate Dean's life and call Dean "ungrateful" if he tried standing up for himself.

Surely his mother didn't think this process easy. What teenager in his right mind jumped at the opportunity to go running about Britain with no clear destination? What teenager in his right mind rejoiced at abandoning the brothers and sisters he taught to draw and ride bicycles? What teenager in his right mind fancied leaving his mother alone with only material objects to remind her that his existence was not a figment of her imagination?

Bursting by Joanna, Dean jogged down the stairs to the front door. But somehow, she appeared out of nowhere and blocked his path. Blinking in confusion, he looked around, as if searching for tangible traces of Apparition.

"What—how did you—"

"This is my final warning, son." Joanna Thomas choked, making the lump in Dean's throat quiver. "You walk through this door, if you become Desmond, you can forget about ever coming back."

Dean surveyed his mother, at the despair swimming within her eyes, and gulped. He had a sinking feeling she thinks herself a maternal failure. True enough, he hadn't been the perfect son. But the concept of 'perfect' was been a fabrication. Perhaps she thought he was lying through his teeth, a rebel, forming what he believed a plausible excuse just to separate himself from his kin.

But the Gryffindor was a realist, and one who knew there were no loopholes. A coward's route would be appealing if he were a lesser man. If Dean elected to take the Slytherin path, he could remain at home and wait for the inevitable, for those raging bastards to shatter them. The other option, the only sensible option was to make a run for it, to leave, to inspire oceans of tears and disgust to burn blacker than the night sky.

It was neither here nor there, whether they hated him for the rest of their lives, especially when he was trying to ensure those had longevity.

And so, he left. Kissing away a solitary tear as it fell from his mother's cheek, he shrugged off the deplorable terms that chased him. He knew they were screamed in angeralone.

Dean hated his life, hated himself, for being so much like his father.

Hermione assured him, in her letter, facing the unwanted exodus wouldn't feel as bad once he'd said goodbye, because 'goodbye' was in the name of justice.

There was a first time for everything.

And for the first time in her life, the brightest witch of her age was wrong.

Fin.