Dean had read comic books his whole life and was certain Harry was a superhero (it was all there: origin story, sidekicks and supervillain). Dean’s faith in him never wavered, through slander and all. Superheroes needed people as much as the other way around; The-Boy-Who-Lived was a heavy name to bear and Dean would make sure he would never feel alone.
The realization came slower for Dean himself, that he too, with his wand and broom, could be part-Superman, part-Iceman, a bit of Thor, and a bit of Drax if he worked on his Quaffle-catching reflexes (nothing went over his head). When the Ministry established the Muggle-Born Registration Commission, Dean found his days marked. He packed his bag in the night, slid his box of comics out from under his bed, and owled his favorite issue to Seamus, with a coded letter of his plans. Time to save the world, Dean thought, zipping up his jacket. If they survived the year, maybe they could finally take to the rooftops of Muggle London like he had half-joked and protect the city as robed crusaders. He was surprised not more wizards did.