A/N: A short, kinda-sad fic for the HPFC Random Characters Challenge. I hope you like it. ;D
Disclaimer: I am a mere fangirl borrowing JKR's creations.
Leaving
His brothers and sisters were nowhere to be seen, thank Merlin. The house was quiet, though each moment of stillness seemed to be broken by the rushing of the blood in his ears.
Suddenly, the loud roar of the razor echoed in the kitchen, and Dean, eyes on the floor, watched as pieces of his hair fell to the ground. Once the machine turned off, Dean ran one hand over his now-short hair, his eyes still on the ground. He sat unmoving for a moment, before he looked up, shaking his head clear of his thoughts.
He looked up at his mother, who was now sweeping the hair away from the stool. Dean pointed his wand at it and vanished it without a word, still keeping his gaze on his mother.
"Dean…" the word slipped from her mouth, breaking the silence. Dean looked up at her, his dark eyes meeting her.
"I'll be alright, Mum," he replied quickly. They had had this talk before, and she knew it wasn't worth arguing. "I'll be fine – just camping, hiding out. Nothing dangerous, nothing risky." He paused, his breath shallow.
"But –"
"I'm not the only one, Mum," he replied. "Classmates of mine – Harry, Ron, Hermione, they're also out there somewhere." His eyes skimmed over an old issue of the Daily Prophet, one corner sticking out of the trash. A piece of the headline was visible, but Dean didn't need to look at it to know what it said. Undesirable Number One, eh? I wonder where I am on that list.
One hand on the strap of his backpack, his looked at his mother, imprinting her face into his mind.
"I'll be alright, Mum," he repeated, softly this time. "Tell them all… tell them that I love them." He paused, looking his mother in the eye. "I love you, Mum."
He turned around, pointing his wand around the room, fixing with random odds and ends before he left. The bent frying pan straightened, and the cracked tea kettle looked good as new. He waited a second, for his mother to say something. To say anything.
"Mum?" he asked, turning around. His mother stood frozen, tears forming in her eyes.
"I wish you hadn't said that," she breathed, her voice barely carrying in the air. She suddenly hugged him fiercely, tears leaking from her eyes.
"Promise me you'll take care of yourself," she said. "Promise me that I'll see you again." The answer was in his eyes, but she couldn't bring herself to look at them.
"I promise… I'll try," her son replied. "I'll send news whenever I can." He paused. "But you know… the less you know the better. They can't get you that way." Another pause, and he gave his mother a kiss on the cheek.
"I love you, Mum," he said again, grabbing his backpack. With a twist and a crack he disappeared from the kitchen.
When she finally looked back at the rest of the kitchen, minutes later, the trash was gone.