Chapter Two

Dean awoke slowly on a couch. It was a pleasant couch, a familiar couch, but not his couch, which he found to be an unfortunate fact. He kept his eyes closed, breathing in the very familiar smell of this couch and wondering what exactly made it so appealing, why he loved this scent so very much, and then it struck him.

It was the scent of Seamus, and he was lying on Seamus's couch.

Seamus was dead.

Dean's eyes flew open, and he shot up off the couch, horrified. His breaths came in heavy gasps, and he stared at the couch. How had he gotten there? The flat had been sold-

"Good morning," called a young lady's voice.

Dean turned around, his eyes round, and stared at the lady, mortified, as he recalled the events of the night prior. That splitting sensation behind his sternum dug at him further as he inhaled, the scent of Seamus enveloping him. He had missed this scent.

"I...I'm sorry," he finally stammered out. "I'll just...I'll just leave now."

He staggered over to the door, but the lady smiled gently at him and placed her hand on his arm.

"Don't. Have breakfast with me instead, if you're willing," she invited him.

Dean nodded numbly and made his way over to the table. It was already set for two. Across from him, the lady took her seat. Dean drew in a deep breath.

"Last night...I was trying so hard to forget something I never should have tried to forget. I made a mistake which led to several other mistakes and I ended up here," he blurted out all in one breath.

"Let's not start there. I'm Danielle Beauchene. What's your name?" she introduced herself, holding out one slim hand.

"Dean Thomas," he replied, shaking her extended hand, "and I am so, so sorry."

"No need to be," Danielle assured him. "We've met before, but only briefly. If I remember correctly, this flat was left in your possession, and you sold it to me."

Dean cringed.

"Yes," he whispered, staring down at his plate.

"Eat," she told him, gesturing with her fork. "Now, if you don't mind my asking, who lived in this flat before?"

Dean braced himself. It was still painful to even say his name.

"Seamus Finnigan," he responded, clenching his jaw.

With that, the dull ache behind his sternum exploded just like the water Seamus had once tried to turn to rum. Dean's face crumpled, and he clutched at his chest. Danielle watched him quietly for a few moments.

"I'm sorry," she finally responded. "What...what was he to you?"

Dean wanted to lie, wanted to lie to himself and to Danielle and to Seamus, but it wasn't right.

"He was my partner, and not only in the work sense," he managed to tell her, his words stilted and stiff.

Danielle smiled sadly.

"I did get that feeling," she murmured, playing with her teacup.

"What're you, a Seer?" he joked weakly.

"A Healer," she countered, "one in the psychology ward, though. I've never been good with blood, but with emotions...at least I can empathize."

Dean sucked in a long breath, unable to meet Danielle's eyes. They were blue and too much like Seamus's. Everything about her was too much like Seamus, not least of which was her dream of becoming a Healer-her accomplished dream. Everything about everything was a constant, excruciating reminder of what he'd had and all he'd lost.

"What drove you to pursue that particular path?" Dean forced himself to ask.

Danielle didn't reply for a long time, and Dean looked up at her in askance. She was staring at her tea.

"I didn't want people to have to go through what I-what you're going through alone," she finally answered. "No one should have to go through that, much less alone."

Dean watched her carefully, trying to gauge her mannerisms, but there wasn't very much to gauge. Danielle had stabbed a piece of her scrambled egg and stuffed it in her mouth, her shoulders hunched.

"I appreciate your doing that," began Dean slowly, "and I'm sure many others do as well."

Dean hesitantly tried a piece of his scrambled egg, placing it in his mouth and masking a shudder.

"Thank you," sighed Danielle.

He nodded, placing his fork neatly and quietly on his plate. There was a suffocating silence, a silence that left room for thought. Dean found his mind drifting pleasantly all over the place, a welcome change after perpetual thought about Sea-

"So," Dean choked out, his throat closing up, "What school did you attend?"

"I'm your age, so you would've remembered me if I'd gone to Hogwarts...hopefully," laughed Danielle. "No, I went to Beauxbatons. I've only just recently gotten myself a permanent home in England."

"Really? You don't have an accent at all," remarked Dean, impressed.

Danielle smiled gratefully.

"Well, I'd been practicing with the best English tutors since a very young age," she admitted, toying with a lock of her sandy brown hair.

Dean's eyebrows rose.

"Your parents paid for English tutors for years, just like that?" he asked. "Wow. That's...wow."

"My mum and dad are rich purebloods," Danielle explained, glancing down self-consciously. "They...er...actually sided with You-Know-Who. That's why I left as soon as I could."

"That was very brave of you, Danielle, to leave like that," Dean told her. "It's incredibly difficult to just up and leave your loved ones."

Danielle bit her lip.

"I should've fought with you," she mumbled. "I should've, but I didn't. Instead, I was a coward. I'm no Gryffindor."

"What you did took a lot of courage in itself. Godric Gryffindor would be proud to call you one of his kin," Dean assured her firmly, meeting her blue eyes and clenching his jaw when they sparkled so familiarly.

Danielle blinked, tilting her head to one side and examining him curiously. Dean's hands fisted against his jeans; she wore the same expression the eleven-year-old Seamus had worn just prior to tackling him and introducing himself.

"Why do you have so much trouble looking me in the eye?" she inquired gently.

Dean tensed.

"I don't want to talk about it," he replied shortly, standing. "Thank you kindly for your hospitality, but I don't wish to intrude any further."

With that, he turned on his heel and left.