Healer Studies, task 1: Write about someone struggling to keep it together in the face of a tragedy.

Word Count: 628

"I think all your time on the run has slowed your reflexes," Seamus teases as he and Dean run through the corridors to find where they're needed.

Dean rolls his eyes. "Right," he shoots back dryly, pausing to Stun a nearby Death Eater. "Has nothing to do with the fact that it isn't my wand. I'm just slow."

His best friend smirks and shrugs his shoulder before picking up his pace and rushing toward the frenzy of the battle. Dean can keeps up easily. One thing is certain: being on the run for so long has increased his speed and stamina; Seamus can no longer outrun him.

"I can help you, if you'd like," Seamus offers with a chuckle. "I've become quite adept in dueling while you were gone."

"Dueling, or blowing things up?"

"Oi! I don't appreciate the–"

Dean doesn't even hear the curse being cast. One moment he and Seamus are running and laughing, and the war is so far away for just a fleeting second. The next, the green light engulfs Seamus, and he falls, his final sentence dangling in the air, unfinished

Dean barely registers what happens. Seamus drops, and he nearly trips over his fallen friend.

And then it hits him. The war rages on, but it doesn't seem to matter in this moment. Dean skids to a stop, staring down at Seamus' body at his feet.

He blinks. It's impossible. Seamus has always been so strong, so alive. There is no way he can be dead.

His eyes prickle with tears. Seamus lays upon the cold floor among the dust and rubble, his bright eyes dull in death. A teasing smile still twists his lips.

Dean's heart feels as though it's being torn from his chest. He wants nothing more than to drop to his knees, cradle Seamus in his arms, and stroke his sandy-blond hair, but he knows he can't. It doesn't matter how much he's hurting. The world is still spinning, and the battle is still going. He only has a second to pull himself together; his own pain doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things.

With a cry, Dean raises his wand, gripping it so tightly that he can feel a burning strain in his bony knuckles. It feels like an eternity has passed, but it can't have been more than a minute. Alecto Carrow's wand is aimed at him, and her thin lips part.

"You old hag!" Dean screams. "Avada Kedavra!"

He doesn't think it will work. To cast an Unforgivable Curse, one has to mean it, and Dean has never considered himself the type to actually kill. Still, green light cuts through the air and finds home in the wretched woman's chest; she falls, and Dean feels the faintest fluttering of relief pulse through his body.

It isn't enough. Her death doesn't really change anything. Seamus still lays there, unmoving and growing colder by the minute, and Dean's heart continues to break like it's made of fragile glass.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm so bloody sorry."

Battlefields are not the place to grieve. As much as Dean wants to curl up beside him and beg Seamus to not be dead, he knows he can't. He takes a deep breath. He has a war to fight.

Dean grips Seamus by the wrists, carefully pulling him to the side so that he's out of the way of the battle. "I'll come back for you," he says, brushing his thumb over Seamus' pale, freckled cheeks.

Leaving Seamus behind hurts almost as much as losing him, but Dean keeps his head held high. He will not give into his grief and let himself become a victim. His sorrow will shape him into something new, and he will win this war for Seamus.