A/N-This was written for the French Challenge on the Harry Potter Fanfiction Challenges forum.
Heroism is not much; happiness is more difficult to achieve. -Albert Camus
She stood looking at the grave. The ocean pounded on the cliffs and the salty wind whipped her hair around.
Here lies Dobby, a free elf.
She couldn't believe that she had to bid adieu, farewell to Dobby.
"He's free now," she cried, because even though most people wouldn't associate death with freedom, Luna was not most people.
She suddenly remembered what had happened in the Department of Mysteries, the strange voices whispering behind the eerie, fluttering Veil.
She would see Dobby again, behind the Veil. So, maybe it wasn't adieu, it was… 'a bientôt'. See you soon.
It still hurt.
She kneeled over the grave, tears falling onto the mound of dirt. It all felt oddly familiar, déjà vu to her broken heart. Her mother's grave had been near the sea, and Luna had knelt over it, crying, many times,
"Luna?"
She turned, and through her blurred vision she could see Dean Thomas walking toward her.
Dean was not looking well. Living as a fugitive from the Ministry for months and then being captured by Death Eaters had an adverse effect on one's health. He was thin and had bags under his eyes.
He sat down next to her on the grave.
Flicking his wand, he produced a handkerchief which he then handed to her.
"Here," Dean said kindly.
Sniffling, she took it and blew her nose loudly.
"Thanks," she said at last, though she didn't know exactly who she was thanking.
That sat in companionable silence, a soundless tête-à-tête, occasional tears coming to her eyes at memories of Dobby, and when she looked over at Dean, his dark eyes were shining.
"I'm sorry," he said suddenly, though he didn't know exactly who he was speaking to.
"He was a hero," she whispered, eyes filling with tears.
"Heroism is not much; happiness is more difficult to achieve," he said quietly.
She thought about that for a minute, realizing that it was true.
"You're right. Dobby was happy, and that's what is most important."
He nodded.
"I'm still going to miss him, though. A lot."
And her shoulders shook as she gave another little sob.
Hesitantly, Dean reached for her hand. His fingers closed around her cold ones. She felt the warmth of his hand clasped around hers, and felt a little better. It was comforting.
"I will too," he said simply.
"The people I love keep dying, though!" She said furiously. "And I can't do anything about it!"
Looking alarmed, Dean pulled his hand away.
The warmth was gone.
He reached his hand up, and pushed her hair back behind her ear.
Her cold, wind-blown face tingled at his touch.
"Who?" He said softly, and Luna told him.
She told him all about her mother, and how she acted like she didn't remember the death, but that she did, and it was still very vivid to her.
She told him about how lonely it was, and how her father threw himself into work.
She told him about how all her life, she was Lonely Loony Luna.
Dean listened the whole time, patiently but frowning.
"So, now," she sobbed, "I'll be more alone than ever!"
He put his arm around her, and leaned his head in to whisper in her ear.
"I'm here."
Luna felt a surge of hope at those words, and as she turned her face up to look at him, he leaned in even more and gently kissed a tear.
"It'll be okay. It'll end up happily," he assured her, and leaned in again.
She had Dean.
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