Colin Lives!

There was a fair bit of irony to be found in Oliver's coming to Flintshire on such a regular basis, considering whom he had been ignoring for the past six months. But with each visit to his former lover's namesake, the sting of that nasty break-up dulled until he could barely remember the many sleepless, rejected nights. Was that why he continued his periodic visits to the Creeveys? Was there something else that motivated him? Or had Colin simply become an inadvertent investment?

Oliver had gotten used to the journey up to Welsh country. The old magickal folk of Wales still referred to the train as the Wrexham, Mold and Connah's Quay Railway, and although it had long been renamed the Borderlands Line, it lost none of its magic in the change. Of course, the name was merely semantic—the locomotive merely followed along the same path as its Muggle counterpart, and not very faithfully, either.

With each journey, the train swerved and curved along a trajectory that made Oliver wonder if the driver were not bewitched, befuddled or, worse yet, drunk. The train flew high above the town, masked from Muggle eyes, passing over the Point of Ayr lighthouse before approaching River Dee, sweeping around, and connecting effortlessly with Hawarden Bridge. From there, it was southwards bound into Shotton Railway Station.

Shotton was a far cry from Hogsmeade Station. It had neither the flash nor the frenzied pace that Oliver had been accustomed to during his years travelling as a Hogwarts student, and then as a Puddlemere United player. But there was a quiet resonance about the depot that awed him. It was like that every time he came to visit.

This time, however, something was different: Dennis Creevey was waiting for him on the platform.

Hands stuffed into the pockets of his oversized hand-me-down jacket, Dennis kicked a rock down the length of the platform. He seemed worn, more tired than usual, as if he hadn't slept in quite a long time. Oliver stepped off the train, rucksack thrown over one shoulder, and waved. To his credit, Dennis managed a genuine smile and perked up at the sight of him. For a moment, he reminded Oliver of everything he associated with the Creevey brothers: exuberance, unbound energy, innocence.

"I can carry that for you," Dennis said, reaching out to take Oliver's bag.

Oliver tried to object, tried to remind Dennis that he was, after all, a professional Quidditch player more than capable of handling his own luggage, but Dennis had already stolen it and flung it over his back, very nearly falling over in the process.

They walked into the station and towards the front gates in silence. Oliver had been to King's Cross, Hogsmeade Station, Lithuania's Vilnius Station, and the Berlin South Cross, just to name a few, and yet never had encountered a station as vacant as Shotton. They saw a wizened old man sitting on a high-chair, half-propped up against the wall, fast asleep and snoring loud as thunder. They laughed as they stepped over the threshold to the street and passed him, but there was a slight shade of unease and awkwardness about it.

Oliver didn't know what to say, really, so he started with the obvious. "So… ye decided to come pick me up, eh?"

"Yeah."

"How'd ye even know that I was coming?"

"I… just knew." But Oliver could tell that wasn't exactly the truth and he stopped abruptly, staring at Dennis until he caved. "Okay, I've been coming here every day, hoping..."

"Every day?"

Dennis nodded.

"Not since my last visit, surely?"

Dennis nodded again. 

So that meant… Dennis had been coming here every day since the last time Oliver had left? Merlin, that was three weeks ago. Oliver couldn't help feeling a tinge of guilt. Had he thought Oliver wouldn't come back?

"I'm sorry. I helped a bit with the Hogwarts reconstruction, and Quidditch is starting up again and…"

"Oh, no, it's okay. I understand. It's just…" Dennis' features pulled inward into something like a cross between a frown and a pout. He hopped, re-adjusting the rucksack higher up on his shoulder. "He does better when you're here."

"Oh. Sorry it took me so long to—"

"No, no," Dennis cut in. "It's really swell that you come up to visit at all and I know you have your own life to worry about and it's really brilliant that Quidditch is starting back—"

Oliver stopped and set his hands upon Dennis' shoulders, turning him until they were face-to-face. "Relax, Dennis," he said and smiled. "Ye've naught t'apologise for, yeah? I've been a right, royal tosser of the highest order. I shouldn't have been gone for so long."

Dennis stood in silence for a quick moment before his too-big-to-be-allowed brown eyes met Oliver's. "But I'm glad you're back."

"Aye, I'm glad, too." Oliver smiled, honestly relieved. He didn't quite understand why.

Mood significantly lighter, Oliver was able to truly enjoy being back in Flintshire with its easy pace and beautiful scenery. The hills were properly hilly—much like home—and the green fields were far greener than Oliver was accustomed to seeing. The crisp breeze was sweet against his lips, and he wanted nothing more than to hop on his broom and take flight. They laughed and joked and teased all the way down Church Street, with Flint Castle looming in the distance. But it didn't bother Oliver as much as it had before.

A good sign, he thought.

Dennis laughed all the way home, getting particularly loud once he hopped piggyback atop Oliver's broad shoulders and began pretending he was a jockey in some fantastical horse race. Some of Dennis' neighbours peered out of their windows or stopped tending to their yards when they heard him, and it became obvious to Oliver that they had probably not heard laughter from the Creevey boys in quite some time.

"Cor! But ye've grown!" Oliver joked, pretending as though he would topple over at any time.

"I'm fourteen," Dennis said. "Of course I've grown! I'm going to be as tall as Viktor Krum!"

"Viktor's not all that tall, really."

Dennis hopped off Oliver's back when they stopped at the fence in front of Dennis' house. "Well, then… tall as you."

Oliver stared at the house. He still couldn't get over how different it was from their old place in Yorkshire. A proper detached house rather than the semi they'd had before. This one looked more expensive, though not ostentatious.

"Dennis Adam Creevey! Where have you—oh!"

Dennis' mom had jerked open the front door, and she had murder in her eyes, until she caught sight of Oliver, who himself stiffened. His smile fell as Dennis walked, shoulder slightly hunched, into the house. Oliver couldn't hear exactly what she had said to Dennis as he passed her—it was little more than aspirated sibilance—but he could tell she was scolding him for leaving without telling her, as he had done for the past three weeks.

Finally, Mrs Creevey straightened up and looked at Oliver, wiping her hands on her apron. Her expression remained undecipherable. Oliver couldn't tell if she hated him or merely hated what he represented—a world that almost killed her son. But after a beat, she said, "Mr Wood," her tone clipped, and stepped aside.

"Mrs Creevey," Oliver replied with a respectful nod. "Thank you for having me."

She didn’t respond, just turned and walked toward the back of the house.

He felt like he should say something, some words of comfort, but none came to mind.

The silence stretched. He shifted on his feet, glancing at the tight set of her shoulders as she disappeared down the hall. The last time he was here, she had at least tried for small talk.

Something had changed in the three weeks since he’d visited Colin last. And suddenly, that gap of time felt too long. Oliver took a slow breath to steady himself before crossing the threshold. 

Inside, the air—thick, stale, and dry—nearly choked him. Had the windows ever been opened? A heavy, cloying fragrance sat atop the stillness, an artificial attempt to smother something worse. Oliver coughed once, politely bringing up a loose fist to his mouth, and tried to pass it off as casual.

Mrs. Creevey was at the counter, kneading dough, pounding it within an inch of its life.

He knew he should probably stay out of her way as best he could.

He wondered if he should've stayed gone altogether.

Oliver let his eyes drift about the sitting room, searching for any sign of the Creeveys he once knew. The photos—plain Muggle photos, of course—remained where they had been last time, but something about the house still struck him as wrong.

Had the fireplace always been gone?

Oliver was sure there was a fireplace the last time he visited. Or... maybe Oliver simply hadn’t looked closely enough. He had been too focused on Colin, too worried about Dennis, too caught up in the visit to really notice. But now that he was paying attention, he realized just how much had changed. The entire fireplace had been sealed over with plaster, as if it had never existed. The walls—bare in places where frames or mirrors had once hung—only reinforced that deliberate erasure.

Had Mrs. Creevey been cutting magic out of their lives even back then? He didn’t know. But he knew what it meant: The medi-wizards had stopped coming. Either by their own accord, or upon Mrs. Creevey’s demands.

Whatever traces of magic the house once contained had long-since faded into something akin to the slight buzzing of a distant bee. Oliver had noticed the steady decline of magic in the Creevey home since his last visit, but now it felt deliberately scrubbed of anything remotely magical. 

This wasn’t just a new home. This was a declaration. 

Oliver heard a rustle and a grunt from behind—Dennis, hefting the rucksack over his shoulder. "Come on, then?" he said right before bounding up the stairs as best he could under the weight. 

Oliver followed. "Your mum doesn't like me, I don't think."

"Oh, she's just . . . well . . . you know."

But Oliver didn’t know. And Dennis’ evasiveness only made him more certain that his presence wasn’t exactly welcome.

"She’s hacked off at me, mostly," Dennis admitted, adjusting the rucksack.

Oliver frowned. "What for?"

"For writing to you." Dennis hesitated, then grinned—too pleased with himself. "Giving you our new address."

Oliver exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Dennis, didn’t you ask her first?"

Dennis’ grin turned cheeky. "Course not." 

Because he'd have done it anyway, the little imp.

§

Upstairs, Dennis turned and entered a room that Oliver knew was used mostly as storage. He stood at the door and stared into the room, noting the stacks of boxes, bookshelves, and wardrobes, filled with clutter of all sorts: papers, books, clothes. There were far too many pieces of furniture in far too small a space, but a tiny patch of the room next to the window had been cleared for him. The space housed a rolled-up sleeping bag and two thin pillows.

"If this isn't okay," Dennis said, shrugging off the rucksack, "we can switch. You can have my—"

"Absolutely not," Oliver said with a smile. "This is perfect. I'll not have ye giving up your room."

"It's only for two days, though, innit?" Dennis asked, although Oliver understood what he was really asking.

"Well, two days here. I doubt your mum will like me staying longer. I'm surprised she's letting me stay as it is. But there's an inn by the rail station I can stay in. I've a week before I'm to be back at practice. So . . ."

Then Oliver noticed several pieces of furniture that he remembered being in Colin's room at the old house. He pointed at a chest of drawers. "Wasn't that chest in Colin's room? Why's it in here?"

Dennis' posture gave way slightly. "We had to move it. To make room."

"Room for what?"

Suddenly, Dennis' eyes lit up. The boy bounded up and down on the tips of his toes, once again excitable. "You've never seen my room, have you?"

Oliver knew Dennis was trying to change the subject, but he thought it best to allow it for the moment. "No, I don't think I have. Show me, then?"

A breeze whipped about them as soon as Dennis opened the door, making the drapes flutter like the tentacles of the Giant Squid in the Great Lake. Despite the open windows, the unmistakable scent of teenage boy still invaded his senses—slightly pungent, slightly bleachy, like sweat and come. Clothes lay on the floor, as did magazines, which Dennis quickly scooped up and threw in his closet. Dennis' Hogwarts acceptance letter was no longer hanging on the wall. Instead, it lay atop the closet shelf, partially hidden behind a stack of jumpers.

There were, however, tonnes of posters of both Quidditch players—including Viktor, and, to Oliver's utter embarrassment, himself. There were also posters of people Oliver could only assume were Muggle sports stars. 

Oliver's eyes lingered on one particular poster of a Muggle in a red jersey, mid-stride, arms spread wide in celebration. He looked familiar.

"Michael Owen," Dennis said, grinning. "Brilliant player. Gonna be the best in the world."

Oliver looked at the player. Then he looked at the poster of himself. Then back at Owen. He tilted his head. Then he saw it. The resemblance. Same sharp, boyish features. Same too-pleased-with-himself grin.

"Would catch Colin gawkin’ at him sometimes," Dennis added absently, flopping onto his bed.

Oliver frowned. Just slightly. "Aye?"

"Yeah, but can’t blame him, right? He’s got that whole ‘young prodigy’ thing goin’ for him."

Oliver made a noise in the back of his throat, barely more than a hum. He looked at the poster again. Not very tall, though.

Dennis caught the tone. Sat up a little. "What?"

Oliver shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Just sayin’. He’s not that tall."

Dennis snorted. "Taller than me."

"Not sayin’ much though, is it?"

Dennis chucked a pillow at him, which Oliver caught one-handed. "Cor, but you have a thing for short athletes, yeah?" Oliver teased. "First Krum, now this one…"

Dennis sputtered, indignant. "Oi! He’s five-eight! Not short! That’s—compact."

Oliver smirked. "Aye. Keep tellin’ yourself that."

Oliver looked at the other Muggle footballers hanging on the wall—Beckham, Zidane, Nazário. Memories started to flood back. 

"Marcus wanted to go see a game once..."

It hit Oliver that this was the first time in weeks he had actually said the name aloud. If he thought the sting of the break-up had passed, he was sorely mistaken. He swallowed hard and looked about the room, trying to find something else—anything else—to talk about.

"You and . . . You and Marcus were . . . you know?"

"Yeah."

"But you're not . . . together anymore?"

"No."

Dennis paused for a moment, and the silence weighed heavy on Oliver.

"His loss, then," Dennis said, matter-of-factly. "I always thought Colin was . . . you know . . . that way, too. A shirt-lifter, I mean."

"Don't say that," Oliver scolded, although not too harshly.

"Sorry." Dennis looked genuinely apologetic.

Another pregnant silence descended, neither of them knowing what to do or say.

"Do . . . do you want to see him, now?" Dennis finally asked.

His throat tightened, his mouth had gone suddenly dry, but he forced himself to answer anyway. "Aye."

The closer they got to Colin’s room, the more unease Oliver felt. It wasn’t just nerves. There was something else—something he could feel, like a hum beneath his skin. A low, steady buzzing at the edge of his awareness, like static on a wireless that hadn’t quite tuned in.

It wasn’t magic. Not really. But it wasn’t nothing, either.

A rhythmic beeping noise—faint, steady, unfamiliar—broke through the silence, and Oliver frowned. It was coming from inside the room. He couldn’t place it, but something about it made his stomach twist.

They stopped outside a door at the end of the hallway. Dennis hesitated, his hand on the doorknob.

"It's not..." Dennis started, then stopped. "Just... don't freak out, yeah?"

Oliver nodded, his throat suddenly dry. Dennis pushed the door open.

He expected to have all his questions answered as soon as Dennis opened the door. But nothing could have prepared Oliver for what he saw instead.