Author's Note: This was written for the Reviews Lounge Easter Challenge. We were challenged to include a hunt in our story, along with two extra details from a list of twelve. I worked primarily with warmth and eyes, although coldness, feelings, and a kiss get cameos. Please enjoy, and please review.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, or any of its related indicia.

"Dean?" Luna asks, her blonde head poking around the door.

Dean flinches slightly and shoves something hastily into the left pocket of his robes.

"I'll be there in a moment, Luna," he replies, attempting a smooth tone and failing.

Luna smiles and takes a step into the room, shutting the door quietly behind her.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asks.

Dean laughs ruefully, his back still turned to her.

"No, Luna. But if I ever want to, you know you'll be the first person I fire-call," he replies.

Luna smiles and lays a hand on his shoulder. She squeezes strongly, once, then turns and exits the room, shutting the door just as quietly as she had seconds ago.

Dean exhales a breath he doesn't know he has been holding. His hand moves to his left robe pocket, and when it returns to view, his slender dark digits grasp a picture.

The picture is not a photograph. Instead, it is a sketched scene of a girl, sitting in a windowseat in the Gryffindor Tower. She is barefoot. Her legs are tucked underneath her. A thin, pink dress hangs across her features, complimenting her slim figure neatly. Her long red hair cascades down her back. Her head is slightly atilt, caught in silhouette as she stares up at a full moon outside the window.

Dean's finger lightly traces the sketched curves of the girl's jaw.

He remembers when he drew this picture of her.

He had walked into the Common Room, saw her looking so incredibly breathtaking, and his arm began to twitch. It always twitched when he felt the compelling urge to draw something that radiated inner beauty. It twitched when he saw the sparkling sunrise over the Forbidden Forest. It twitched when he watched the Owls fly in with the morning mail at breakfast, a cavalcade of color and action. It twitched when he watched the last warming embers of the fire sputter and slowly cool during his more introspective moments when he chose to simply sit and stare.

It twitched whenever he saw her.

So he stood and watched her for a moment, committing every detail of the image to memory. Remembered how her legs gleamed in the pale light. Remembered the look in her eyes, that look of hungry longing. Remembered the way that the moonlight encapsulated her jawline. Then he stepped closer and called her name, breaking her from her luminous reverie.

Later that evening, after a particularly heinous argument between the two, he began his sketch.

"You don't know a THING about me, Dean Thomas!"

(But he knew how the dress made her seem as innocent as the first day she had arrived at Hogwarts. He knew how she stared at the moon, hunting for the answers to the questions warring within her heart, mind, and soul. He knew she didn't love him.)

He began to refine the sketch the next day, establishing shadows, clarifying details, and erasing extra lines.

"Just leave me alone!"

(Alone. Staring, desolate, at the moon: the only thing as uninhabited and cold as her.)

He added color two days later, electing to paint everything in the picture but the girl herself.

"I don't want to talk about it, Dean."

(She never wanted to talk. She just brooded. Stared. Tried to find the answer to all of her problems in everything but herself.)

He completed the picture the day before they broke up.

"I'm sorry, Dean. I just...I'm sorry."

(Sorry for never trying hard enough. Sorry for not trying to warm her up with his passion instead of empty kisses. Sorry for not realizing she still loved Harry until he was in too deep. Sorry for loving her.)

He Shrunk the picture and carried it around with him ever since. During those cold nights on the run from the Snatchers, he would pull it out. He would trace the curve of the girl's jaw like a marooned soldier longing for his girl back home. And soon he noticed that his body wouldn't feel quite as cold anymore.

Just his heart.

And as he stares at it now, he hunts for the answers to his questions in its penstrokes.

He wants to know why he came to the wedding, still feeling the way he does for her.

He wants to know why she makes him feel complete everywhere except his heart.

He wants to know why Harry always gets the girl.

He wants to know why he keeps surviving to endure more days without her in his life.

He wants to know why he'll never stop loving her.

But sketched pictures cannot talk.

So he tucks the picture into the left pocket of his dress robes, takes a deep breath, and steps out of the bedroom that once belonged to Charlie Weasley. As he shuts the door and turns around, Luna's face appears in front of him.

"Ready, Dean?" she asks.

(He's not.)

"Sure, Luna," he replies, holding out his arm. She giggles and takes it. He escorts her down the stairs of the Burrow, through the house, past the hustle and bustle of Weasleys rushing about, and into the majestically decorated backyard. They take their seats and chat quietly with each other as the ceremony slowly winds its way to a beginning.

As they stand for the blushing, beaming bride, Luna takes his hand, offering wordless support. Dean hunts for Ginny's eyes, searches for his answers within the colored-in version of his affections.

But her eyes remain fixed on her prince at the end of the aisle.

"It's over, Dean. We're just...not meant to be."

Luna squeezes his hand tighter.

Her hands are warm.

Slowly, he squeezes back.

Author's Note: Like what you've read? Then please review.