Room & Suit
"I don't feel very dead."
Well you are.
Am I really, though?
Well . . . you're . . . ah, well . . . you're . . . sort of.
Sort of dead?
Practically dead.
Practically dead?
Very nearly dead.
Very nearly dead?
Almost.
Almost?
As-good-as!
So I'm sort of practically very nearly almost as-good-as dead.
Those words—and the utter ridiculousness of them—hung in the vast emptiness that surrounded Colin. The sound of it rumbled through the nothingness, vibrating through Colin’s bones. It was the first thing he had felt since waking in this white nothing space. Then, a voice—an echoing decree, distant at first, but growing.
"YOU HAVE ONE HOUR."
The words hit like a physical force, a pulse of raw command surging outward.
"TREAT YOUR INJURED."
The sound swelled, filling every part of Colin’s being, rattling the air, his lungs, his skull. He clamped his hands over his ears, but the words wouldn’t be shut out. The white void rippled with their power, pressing against him like the weight of the ocean.
Then, the suited man standing in front of him swatted away the sound with a dismissive flick of the hand. Afterwards—silence.
Colin exhaled, lowering his hands. The sound of his own breath felt strange in the emptiness. He eyed the man warily.
"I just don’t feel very dead," he said again.
The suited man sighed, rubbing his temple like a man accustomed to tedium. "I told you—"
Colin cut him off, raising a hand. "Yeah, yeah. Sort-of-very-nearly-practically-almost-as-good-as dead." He took another cautious glance around. "So, what is this place?"
The last thing he remembered was the battle—the chaos, the spells flashing like lightning in the darkness, the air thick with smoke and the sharp scent of blood. Then Greyback, crouched over Lavender Brown, teeth bared. Poor Lavender. Colin had been hurt, barely able to hold his wand, but he had fired a hex anyway, through the pain, through the exhaustion. It bounced off the werewolf like a raindrop on stone. Greyback had turned, fixing Colin with a look of mild irritation, as if swatting at an insect.
Then—red light. A force slamming into his chest. The world spinning, trees rushing toward him. A crash.
No pain.
And that was the strangest part—Colin knew pain. He’d taken enough falls, tumbled from enough trees and landed on enough pavements with Dennis to know what broken bones felt like.
Dennis.
Where was Dennis?
"You don't remember the pain," interrupted the suited man, "because it killed you."
At Colin's skeptical look, the man corrected himself with a sigh: "Well, very nearly almost..." He pulled a timepiece from his jacket pocket and began tapping his foot in a steady rhythm. "Look, I haven't all day. There are other..." He paused, catching himself. "I mean, I have other engagements."
"Other what?" asked Colin. "Dennis? Where's Dennis? Is he—?"
"Dennis is fine," the man said. "For now." He pulled a pained expression, clearly regretting saying as much as he had.
"For now? What do you mean by it? Look, Mr Suit or whatever your name is, I'm not budging until you talk, so you might as well tell me."
Mr Suit adjusted his tie. If Colin's christening offended him, he didn't show it. Instead, he looked around and began to speak in low, hushed tones. Colin had to lean in to hear. "Dennis will unfortunately learn the wrong lesson from this experience."
The white background began to quake and shimmer. The faint outline of landscape started to become clearer. He heard a whisper, "stay," but unlike before, it never reached a crescendo. Colin instantly forgot it ever happened.
"He will be angry," Mr Suit continued. "He will be angry for a long time. And soon he will live for that anger, through that anger, until he becomes his anger. And not even the glory of magic—or the memory of you—will see him through it. For just when magic is needed most in his world, it will start to fail him."
Colin's heart broke with every word. And it almost slipped his notice, the suited man's last words. But the snap of the man's timepiece pulled Colin's attention back to him.
"Are you ready, then? It’s time to go."
There was a resolve in Mr Suit’s voice now. This was a battle he had fought and won, like so many other times before. It was only a matter of time. Countless souls since time immemorial have stood where Colin stood now, not wanting to move on. Wanting to stay and fight. To plead and beg. Negotiate. Those souls all had brothers and fathers and mothers who loved them, friends who cared, too. How could they go on without him? How would they make do?
Those countless souls would all come to the same conclusion: They could go on without Colin. They would make do.
Family would move on. Friends, too. The pain of Colin's absence, if anyone felt it, would turn to a dull ache, an ache that even the joys of everyday would eventually overshadow.
He lived and laughed, learned and fought. And he believed in that fight, too. Was it all for nothing?
Colin closed his eyes. He wouldn't let Mr Suit see him cry. Though in his despair, he thought he heard a phantom wind announce a coward's death. Surely that wasn't Harry! He was no coward! He was a Gryffindor, by golly, by gum! And so was Colin!
Colin fought for something he believed in, for someone he believed in. Magic. Hogwarts. Harry Potter. That's not something cowards do! Was that all that he had left to look forward to? Being just the memory of that sacrifice?
Sacrifice.
"No," Colin said.
The words were a slap in the face to the suited man, who looked genuinely insulted by Colin's conviction.
“What do you mean, ‘no’?”
But there was no turning back now. Colin didn't want to turn back. He felt emboldened. "I will not leave with you," Colin said, finally turning his attention to the man. To fight or to die. Either way, Colin was ready. "I will not leave Dennis."
"You can't save him."
"I can try."
"You will be alone."
"I'll have Dennis."
"Not always."
"Better than never again."
"The effort might kill you."
"I've died already."
"Very nearly died."
Colin wanted to laugh, but thought it bad form. The time for jokes had long passed, and the silence between them stretched to an eternity until Mr Suit slipped his timepiece into his jacket pocket and made to walk towards Colin.
"I could simply take you," he said.
For the first time since Colin woke up in the White Room, Colin was afraid. Help me. Someone. Please.
A suffocating fear gripped him—no, it was Mr Suit. Colin's hand tightened around the hilt of a sword he hadn't realized he was holding. Mr. Suit saw it then, too. His eyes flickered to the weapon. He tightened his grip on Colin's throat and, with his other hand, clawed at Colin's chest, as if searching for something—his heart? His soul? Whatever it was, Mr Suit found his mark, wrapped his cold fingers around Colin’s heart, and squeezed.
Desperation gave way to anger. The sword arced through the air, cleaving through Mr Suit's form. A shockwave of raw power exploded between them, hurling their bodies across the floor like rag dolls. The sword clattered from Colin's grip, ringing against the ground.
Mr Suit snapped upright with inhuman speed, his wand materializing in his grasp. Ancient magic crackled through the air as spell after nameless spell hammered into Colin. Each blast carried the weight of eons — magic so primordial it predated language itself, forces that could shatter worlds and extinguish stars. The very fabric of reality trembled under their impact.
Colin swung his arm, the arm holding the sword, and sliced through Mr Suit. The resulting surge of energy tossed them both to the floor. Colin dropped the sword. In an instant, Mr Suit was on his feet, wand out. He cast spell after spell, each striking Colin dead to rights. And these were no ordinary curses. These were spells as old as time, as old as magic itself. Spells that had no name, could not be named. That could rend planets, outburn suns.
Nothing.
Colin lay sprawled on the stone floor, not a scratch marring his skin despite the onslaught of ancient magic.
Mr Suit crouched, rage contorting Mr Suit's features. His fingers curling into lethal claws, muscles coiling, ready to strike.
"Hold."
A hand gripped Mr Suit's shoulder with quiet authority. Colin tried to see who the hand belonged to, but its owner remained stubbornly beyond his vision, bathed in light.
"It is over."
Mr Suit howled, enraged, defeated.
“Help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it.”
The suited man halted his screams, straightening his tie with deliberate precision. "You will regret this, Colin Creevey." A gleaming timepiece emerged with a flick of his wrist. "I'm late for my next appointment. Purple and brown? Such an odd pairing."
Mr Suit cast a final glance at Colin, his expression betraying a flicker of admiration tinged with… was that pity? Then between one breath and the next, Mr Suit was gone. No flash. No sound. Just… gone.
In his wake, there was darkness. And pain. Pain like none Colin had felt before.
Piles of lifeless bodies lay in the Great Hall, the silence broken only by quiet sobs. Usually bright candles instead cast a subdued glow, washing over dead students making them look more like pale lanterns than students. Children, really. Just children.
Oliver watched Neville Longbottom carry Colin Creevey's body with careful hands. "You weren't supposed to be here, Creevey," Neville whispered, his voice cracking. Oliver could see him struggling to keep it together—they all were.
He stepped forward, arms outstretched. "Here, mate. Let me."
Neville's relief was visible as he passed Colin over. "He wasn't supposed to be here."
"I know," Oliver said quietly. "I know."
Colin Creevey’s first year was Oliver’s sixth—that much he remembered about the boy. That, and he was enamored by The-Boy-Who-Lived. Followed Potter around like an eager puppy. Yes, that he remembered. But Oliver also remembered Colin’s energy, his hunger for knowledge. Oliver thought maybe Colin was Ravenclaw material, but when he heard the Sorting Hat decried “Gryffindor!!” and the young, mousy-haired boy belt out a loud Yippee! — at that moment, Colin Creevy looked every bit like a Gryffindor.
Is this what Gryffindors look like now, though? Dead. Lifeless. A husk of a boy on the verge of becoming a man? Because that’s exactly what Colin looked like when Oliver gently laid him down by a mangled Lavender Brown.
Oliver didn't know why he did it, but he shrugged off his jacket, bunched it up, and gently lifted Colin's head onto this makeshift pillow. Colin's lips were still full, spotted with blood Oliver couldn't bring himself to wipe away. He stood just as Neville arrived with another body, some student Oliver had never seen before.
Oliver turned away as Neville set the corpse next to Colin. It slipped from Neville's grip—always clumsy, Neville—and Oliver fought the urge to go back, to move Colin somewhere better. But where? There was no better spot on the Great Hall floor. Not anymore.
Then a cough. A whimper.
"Professor McGonagall—come quick!"
"What is it, Mr Longbottom?"
"Colin Creevey is alive!"