i.

The first time Dean draws her, he doesn't even know her name. She is just a pretty, strange, nameless Ravenclaw with wide eyes and blonde hair.

He watches her from a distance, quill scratching curves and lines over parchment.

He isn't satisfied with it. There is too much space between them, and she is always moving, flitting about like a bird preparing to leap from a branch and soar.

One day, maybe he will have the courage to draw her for real. But for now, he tucks the rough sketch into his textbook, closing it before anyone can see.

.

"What's this?" Seamus asks, picking up the sketch as it falls onto Dean's bed. "Looks like Loony Lovegood a bit."

"Why do you call her Loony?"

Seamus shrugs. "Everyone does. She's a bit of a nutter, I reckon."

"I think she's inspiring."

ii.

"Pardon?"

Dean winces when he realizes he's spoken aloud. Heat floods his cheeks, but he knows it's too late to take it back now. "I want to draw you," he says with a shrug of his shoulders, as if to show that his suggestion is more casual than it really is.

"Why?"

He supposes it's a fair question. Beyond their safe haven at Shell Cottage, a war is waging, and he's clinging to his hobby like it can save him. Maybe it's silly, but it's the only thing that makes him feel half sane anymore. "You're beautiful," he answers. "Beautiful things deserve to be drawn."

"Am I?"

He likes that there's no false modesty in her question, but it also breaks his heart. Has Luna never been told that she's beautiful? Probably not. At least not at Hogwarts where she's only ever been Loony Lovegood, the bane of Ravenclaw.

"You are."

.

As he draws her, he can't help but to think that he's grateful that he isn't a sculptor. Luna's innocence lends her an air of frailty. He's certain that a statue would too fragile, like the slightest touch would break her.

"Am I doing this right?" she asks, without breaking her pose.

"Perfect," he answers.

What he really wants to tell her is that she is perfect. But though he is a Gryffindor, he is not yet bold enough to voice this.

iii.

He draws her again immediately after the battle. While others are weeping for their fallen loved ones and picking up the shattered pieces of their lives, Dean copes in his own way: quill, ink, and parchment.

He doesn't draw her in rough, shaky lines as he first had, nor does he draw her as a small, delicate creature as he had at Shell Cottage.

The Luna on the parchment is beautiful in a whole new way.

She is a warrior with her curtain of fair waves and her wand poised, ready to defend the castle and people she loves.

"That's lovely," comes a soft voice from behind that causes him to jump, his quill streaking a line of black ink from her wand to the edge of the parchment. "Is that supposed to be me?"

Sheepishly, Dean nods. "I saw you fight," he says quietly. "It was inspiring."

Luna plucks the parchment from his hands, holding it up and examining it with her tongue poking between her lips. "Can I keep this?"

"It- I messed it up. That line there. See?"

Luna just shrugs. "I like it."

iv.

He draws like a madman.

Luna looks perfect. Rolf, her husband her side, looks less than flattering.

Dean knows that it's immature. He ought to be happy for her.

But his hand seems to have its own mind, and it scratches horns and unsightly boils over Rolf's skin.

"Stop it," he tells himself, looking at the wedding photo Luna had sent him.

She had asked him to draw them for her. And he can't bring himself to honor her request.

With a groan, Dean crumples the sketch, tossing it into a bin before cutting a fresh piece of parchment.

He draws Luna again, smiling and lovely in her wedding gown. And beside her, he draws himself.

It's the way it should have been.

.

"I love it," Luna says as she sets the drawing on the coffee table. "Rolf will be pleased, I think."

Dean gives her a forced smile, shrugging. "Sorry it took so long," he says. "I had a bit of trouble capturing him properly."

v.

He doesn't draw her in her coffin, cold and unmoving. Dead.

No. That image goes against everything that Luna is. Was.

She's only ever been life and beauty and perfection. From her wide, curious eyes that would light up whenever she would talk about strange, impossible creatures to the excited spring in her step whenever she walked, even in the darkest of times.

His Luna is alive. His Luna is lined and a little wilted from old age, but she's still smiling and wondering and very much alive.

.

"I never told you I loved you," he whispers to the marble marking her final resting place. "I'm sorry."

Dean leaves his sketchbook by her grave in place of flowers.