No one really noticed Colin Creevy that much. One look at his vintage camera and disproportionate features, and people would turn back to their own lives, and their own concerns. No one really cared what did or did not happen to Colin Creevy.
Even now, his eyes were still so big they look as if they would pop out of his sockets at any moment, and his dirty blond hair was mussed and stuck in all directions. But he didn’t have anyone to impress. Why go to the trouble?
Dennis had faired much better, young little Dennis. But he wasn’t little any more. In fourth year he had a tremendous growth spurt, and soon became the most coveted boy of the school. The Gryffindor Prince after Harry Potter was gone, and one of the chasers on the revered Gryffindor quidditch team. The house of Gryffindor didn’t even care that they lost perennially; they were still heroes.
Nothing like that had ever happen to Colin. He didn’t have girls trailing after him from class to class, never had a date to Hogsmeade or even to a school dance. Sometimes he hated Dennis, for being everything he wasn’t. But in the end, Colin always remembered that he was family, and no matter what, he loved his younger brother.
His walls were covered in newspaper clippings, magazine articles, and photographs. Some were of lakes, or trees, or people from exotic places. There was a beautiful one taken of Hogwarts, the clouds were white and fluffy, and you could see the reflection of the Forbidden Forest on the Lake. There were students milling about the lawn, but that didn’t take away from it any. Colin was especially proud that he had been the photographer. Some were from wizard papers, and the pictures moved, and the people made faces or laughed at the viewer. But most were from muggle places, the scene captured for a split second, never changing.
Photography was his passion, what he threw himself into. Dennis and his wife thought him the black sheep, a delicate soul permanently scarred for life. They just couldn’t grasp why someone would want to primarily live in the muggle world. Dennis had quickly shed all ties with the muggle world, except for the occasional correspondence with his family. It’s not that Colin didn’t go into the wizarding world; it’s just that he chose to make a living in the muggle one. One doesn’t open a photography studio on Diagon Alley.
He sold the lesser-known camera brands, but the ones that held up. His camera repairs were said to be like magic—what his customers failed to realize, was that described his repairs perfectly. Colin didn’t give classes, he was much too shy for that, but would develop pictures dependently and with care, and gave tips to all who asked. He traveled all over the world after graduating from school, and had posted each picture into a scrapbook, with detailed descriptions of the conditions and equipment used. Those alone were attractions to aspiring photographers in the area.
Colin had been doing a fairly good job of sinking into his life, and leaving past events behind him. His brother hadn’t helped with that, Dennis had given him strange looks as though he carried a violently contagious disease, and only came to visit because mom insisted. Colin suspected that was very much the case.
But that boy, the teenager, couldn’t have been much older than 13, had shaken him. Sandy brown hair and bright blue eyes, sparkling with excitement and wonder, so much like someone he once knew. A carbon copy of a young Colin Creevy, with wide-eyed excitement and wonder.
There was one book full of pictures that he did not put out into his shop for all to see. The cover was a faded blue, and the spine unmarked. It wasn’t that noticeable, like the rest of the elder Creevy boy. He didn’t look at it much, just left it on the top shelf of his bookcase that brooded in the corner of his room. It wasn’t something a person wanted to be reminded of on a regular basis.
He didn’t take it down often, he preferred it stay on its high shelf, out of sight. But his hands closed on a faded blue book with an unmarked spine.
The front was filled with newspaper clippings. Every single one detailed the last battle, but none captured what truly happened. None of the pictures showed the atrocity of the massacre on the Hogwarts grounds, which came silently without warning. Even the pictures on the front page of the Daily Prophet didn’t show the true horror of those fateful few hours. They only showed what was most important: Voldemort was dead, and the Boy-Who-Lived with him.
The rest was filled with pictures. Hundreds of pictures. These didn’t hide the events of that night. Some were of the battle; it had been a full moon, which cast an eerie light on the fearful and angry faces of those fighting valiantly for their lives. The images were still, he didn’t even want to imagine what the pictures would be like if they were the moving wizards’ pictures. Tears filled his eyes, and trailed down his cheeks. The last of the book was in the daylight, hundreds of still bodies littering the blood soaked lawn, contorted in unnatural positions. The faces of those dead, eyes looking glazed to the heavens, but they did not see. He prayed that they were truly in a better place.
Closing the book softly, Colin placed it in the vacant spot on the top of the shelves, and went to fix himself dinner.
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