Colin Lives!

The sight before Oliver hit like a Bludger to the ribs. His breath caught —sharp, shallow—as he swallowed against the sour taste rising in his throat.

"My god..." The words barely escaped him.

Colin’s bedroom room was a cluttered landscape of steel poles and plastic bags connected by winding tubes that draped over the bed like vines strangling a tree. Machines flickered and beeped with an incomprehensible rhythm. Oliver fixated on one with glowing numbers shifting like a code he wasn't meant to decipher. Some Muggle contraption he'd heard about but never imagined could look so... lifeless.

As lifeless as Colin.

If this was meant to be healing, it looked more like torture.

Dennis moved around the room with purpose, straightening Colin's blanket, adjusting a clamp on one of the tubes. "He's been stable the last few days. That's good." His voice was mechanically even, but an exhaustion shadowed his words.

Oliver forced himself to look at Colin—or what remained of him. The once-vibrant Gryffindor had shrunk into the sheets, cheeks hollow, body barely making an impression beneath the crisp white linen. A gauze patch covered his eyes, another around his mouth. A thin tube disappeared into his nostrils, leading to a suspended bag. A second, thicker tube was taped over his lips, connecting to something filled with greenish fluid.

Dennis tapped the second bag, noticing Oliver's stare. "He was drowning in his own fluid. This keeps it from happening again." He pointed to another tube disappearing beneath the sheets. "And that one's so he can eat."

Oliver's jaw clenched. "It doesn't look like he's done much of that." The words came out sharp—not aimed at Dennis, but at something he couldn't name. Fate. The war. Himself.

He reached out, fingers hovering above Colin's hand. "And this?" he asked, nodding toward a monitor with jagged blue lines.

Dennis barely glanced up. "That tracks his heart, blood pressure... I don't really know what the numbers mean."

A blue line crawled across the screen, occasionally spiking. His heartbeat. Too slow. Too measured. Colin had always been a flicker of energy, perpetual motion. Now he barely existed.

"What can I do?" Oliver asked, squaring his shoulders. "There has to be something."

Dennis gave him a long look. "We have to roll him every few hours. Prevents bedsores." He slipped his hands under Colin's shoulder blades and lower back. "Help me turn him."

Oliver mirrored Dennis' movements, but when they began to roll Colin, his body spasmed violently—legs twitching, arms jerking as if fighting them off.

"What—? Is he—?"

"It's normal," Dennis said quickly, his expression tight. "Happens every time. He's not in pain."

Oliver wasn't convinced. Colin's face had contorted into a grimace that spoke otherwise. He forced himself to continue helping, but his hands trembled even after they finished.

"I need to change his dressings," Dennis said, reaching for fresh gauze. "You don't have to stay for this."

The unspoken mercy in Dennis's voice—you probably don't want to see this—offered an escape. For once, Oliver took it.

Bedsores. Metal contraptions. Tubes violating places they didn't belong. Sweet, innocent Colin, more skeleton than skin. It overwhelmed him. Oliver swayed, his hand finding the wall for support. He was useless here. This was beyond any magic he knew.

He couldn't do this. Not now. Not yet.

So he left.

Outside, the evening air was crisp, the sky above stretched wide and endless. The contrast was dizzying after the suffocating quiet of Colin’s room. Oliver exhaled sharply, bracing his hands against the back of a worn patio chair. He should leave. He should Apparate back to his flat and pretend, just for a few hours, that he hadn’t seen Colin’s body wasting away in that bed.

It was several breaths before he realized he wasn’t alone.

Mrs. Creevey was sitting on the patio steps, wrapped in an old cardigan, her gaze fixed upward. She hadn’t acknowledged him. She looked smaller than he remembered, as though grief had physically shrunk her.

He opened his mouth, but no words came. What could he possibly say to her? That he was sorry? That he wished things had been different? That he had once carried her son’s lifeless body through the ruins of Hogwarts, thinking he was dead?

None of it would help. None of it would fix this.

So he said nothing.

For a long while, neither of them did. The only sounds were the quiet rustle of leaves, the distant hum of traffic from beyond the neighborhood. Then, just as Oliver shifted, thinking she might want to be alone, Mrs. Creevey stood. She didn’t look at him, didn’t say a word. She simply turned and walked back into the house, slipping past Oliver and disappearing into the dim glow of the kitchen.

The guest room they had given him was little more than a glorified storage space, crammed with old boxes and furniture pushed to the walls. A single cot had been cleared for him, pushed up against the sole wall with a window. It wasn’t comfortable, but he wasn’t expecting comfort tonight.

He sat on the edge of the cot, running a hand through his hair. His mind was still in Colin’s room, still stuck on the hollow spaces beneath his skin, the tubes keeping him alive. And yet—

Oliver frowned, remembering something. A movement. A twitch of Colin’s fingers. A shift of breath, barely there, but something.

He shook his head. Just a reflex, surely. His body reacting, not his mind.

Oliver lay back on the cot, staring up at the ceiling until sleep claimed him.

Sometime in the middle of the night, a sound stirred him. A faint tapping—like an owl at a window.

He sat up, listening. It came again, but softer this time. Heart pounding for reasons he couldn’t explain, Oliver swung his legs over the side of the cot and pulled on a sweater before slipping out into the hallway. He paused outside Colin’s door, hand hovering near the knob, but he didn’t enter. Instead, he continued downstairs, his steps careful, quiet.

The kitchen was dimly lit by the glow of the streetlamp outside. Colin's dad sat at the breakfast nook, a letter in his hands. When Oliver came into his view, he quickly set it down on the table, covered it with his hands. 

Oliver hesitated by the doorway. The smell of warm milk hung in the air.

"Warm milk always helps Colin when he can't sleep," Mr. Creevey murmured. "Before…" He trailed off, staring into the cup in front of him, before offering it to Oliver.

"Nae, ta. I just... thought I heard something." Oliver's voice barely carried.

The silence stretched between them. Mr. Creevey pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, turning it over in his hands. A beat. He looked up at Oliver and flashed a guilty look. "Gave these up last year." He slipped it back in his pocket, untouched. "Doctor’s orders."

Oliver nodded but said nothing. He took the seat opposite Mr. Creevey. 

After a moment, Colin’s dad shifted, straightening a little. "Quidditch, is it? That’s what you play?"

An abrupt change of topic, but Oliver went with it. "Yes, sir. For Puddlemere United."

"Professional, then? Must be good."

"Not First Soar yet," Oliver admitted. Then, clarified: "I’m just reserve."

Mr. Creevey nodded thoughtfully. "Dennis used to talk about it. Before. Said you were ‘the best Keeper Hogwarts had seen in years.’" He glanced at Oliver. "That’s a good thing, I assume?"

The compliment landed strangely—unexpected, undeserved. "He said that?"

"Oh yes. They both do." A quiet chuckle. "Colin has quite the collection of clippings about you. Drives his mother mad, all those moving pictures everywhere."

Oliver felt heat creep up his neck. He didn’t know what to say to that.

"Colin always says you’ll be a star," Mr. Creevey continued, as if Oliver hadn’t spoken.

Oliver let out a small huffed breath—something close to a laugh, but not quite.

"Quite the fan club, those two." Mr. Creevey’s voice was softer now. "Good lads. Both of them."

Something in Oliver clenched at that. The way he still spoke in the present tense. Both. They. As if everything was still normal. As if Colin wasn’t lying upstairs with tubes in his skin.

"Will you stay for breakfast?" Mr. Creevey asked. "Won't be anything special. But we have space for five. You’re more than welcome."

Oliver’s throat felt tight, but he nodded. "I’d like that. Thank you."

They sat in silence after that, but it was different now. Not uneasy, not filled with the need to explain or justify why either of them was here. Just two people carrying the weight of the same person. And for the first time since arriving, Oliver felt something close to comfort.

Morning light filtered through the dusty window of the storage room, catching on the edges of cardboard boxes and forgotten picture frames. Oliver blinked awake, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar surroundings. His neck ached from the narrow cot, and his mouth felt dry. The events of yesterday rushed back—Colin's room, the machines, Dennis's practiced movements, Mrs. Creevey's silent vigil under the stars.

He was still at the Creeveys. And Colin was still...

Oliver swung his legs over the side of the cot, wincing as his spine realigned itself. Through the thin walls, he could hear movement—the soft padding of feet, water running, cupboards opening and closing. The normal sounds of a family going about their day, even when nothing about their situation was normal.

Downstairs, Dennis sat at the kitchen table, mechanically spreading jam on toast. A plate sat untouched opposite him—presumably for Oliver.

"Morning," Dennis said without looking up. "Dad had to go to work. Mum's with Colin."

Oliver took the offered seat. "Thanks for letting me stay."

Dennis nodded, his attention already drifting elsewhere. The animated chatter from yesterday was gone, replaced by an efficiency that seemed at odds with his youth. He moved around the kitchen with the practiced rhythm of someone who'd assumed responsibilities far beyond his years—filling the kettle, checking the time, mentally calculating when each task needed to be done.

"I've got to change his dressings," Dennis said, glancing at the clock. "Then check his feeding tube." A pause. "You can come up if you want. Or not. Whatever."

Oliver recognized the tone—the forced casualness of someone trying not to ask for help while desperately needing it.

"I'll come," he said, abandoning his half-eaten toast. "Maybe I can be more useful today."

Dennis's shoulders relaxed slightly. "It's fine. I mean, I've got it down now. Just thought you might want to see him again before you... you know."

"Before I what?"

"Leave." Dennis wouldn't meet his eyes. "Everyone does eventually."

Oliver felt a sudden surge of guilt. How many people had come to visit in those first few weeks? How many had promised to return, to help, to be there—only to drift away as life resumed its normal rhythms?

"I'm not leaving," Oliver said firmly. "Not for awhile yet, anyway."

Dennis looked up then, his expression carefully guarded. "Okay."

They climbed the stairs together. Oliver determined to be more help than hindrance this time.

Mrs. Creevey was just emerging from Colin's room when they reached the landing. She startled slightly at the sight of Oliver, her hand flying to her throat. For a moment, her mask slipped—revealing not anger, but raw fear. Then it was gone, replaced by the same distant politeness she'd shown yesterday.

"Dennis," she said, her voice steady. "Colin needs his medication. I've left it on the nightstand."

"Got it, Mum." Dennis slipped past her into the room.

Oliver stood awkwardly, unsure whether to follow or wait. Mrs. Creevey regarded him with those same inscrutable eyes before gesturing toward Colin's room.

"You can go in." The words weren't warm, but they weren't cutting either. 

Then she was gone. Oliver watched her disappear down the hallway, down the stairs, out of view. He heard her voice hitch. Had she been crying? Of course she had. Oliver had just never witnessed it. She carried her grief like armor—visible only in the rigid set of her shoulders, the careful distance she maintained from the world.

Inside Colin's room, the scene was painfully familiar. Same machines. Same tubes. Same pale figure on the bed. But Dennis moved with even greater efficiency today, his hands steady as he adjusted the feeding tube, checked monitors, administered medication with a dropper.

"You don't have to stand there," Dennis said without looking up. "You can sit. Talk to him. Whatever. I do sometimes."

"Can he hear us?"

"I like to think so."

That was good enough an answer for Oliver. He settled into the chair beside the bed, watching Dennis work. "You're good at this."

Dennis snorted. "Had plenty of practice, haven't I?"

"Has he... I mean, are there any signs that he's...?"

"Getting better?" Dennis paused, syringe in hand. "The doctors say his brain activity is normal. Whatever that means." He resumed his task. "But they also say there's no guarantees with comas. Could wake up tomorrow. Could wake up never."

The blunt assessment made Oliver flinch.

"Sorry," Dennis added, not sounding particularly sorry. "Mum doesn't like when I talk like that. Says I'm being pessimistic."

"And are you?"

Dennis shrugged, focusing intently on measuring liquid in a small cup. "I'm being realistic. Someone has to be."

Oliver watched Dennis as he tended to his brother. Dennis—a boy who should be flying on broomsticks and plotting mischief, not measuring medications and changing gauze. A boy who had aged years in months, forced into a role no one should have to take on.

"You're a good brother," Oliver said quietly.

Dennis didn't respond, but his movements slowed slightly. For just a moment, Oliver caught a glimpse of the weight Dennis carried—then it was gone, locked away behind practiced motions and careful control.

"All done," Dennis announced, gathering the used supplies. "I'll be back to turn him in an hour."

After Dennis left, Oliver turned to Colin. In the daylight, he looked even more fragile than yesterday—cheekbones sharp beneath translucent skin, collarbones like knives beneath his threadbare pajama top.

"Morning, Colin," Oliver said, keeping his voice light despite the tightness in his chest. "Weather's proper awful today. Raining again. Your mum's got flowers all over the house though—daffodils, I think. Make the place smell nice."

He reached for Colin's hand, hesitated, then took it anyway. Still warm. Still alive.

"Dennis is... he's something else, your brother. Takes care of you better than any Healer at St. Mungo's could, I'd wager."

Oliver talked about nothing and everything—Quidditch scores, training routines, the ongoing reconstruction at Hogwarts. Every now and then, he'd pause, watching Colin's face for any sign of response. Nothing.

"I'll probably need to leave soon," he said eventually. "Got practice in a couple days. Deverill's been on about my form. Says I'm distracted." A hollow laugh. "Can't imagine why."

Another pause. Another moment of watching, hoping.

Nothing.

Oliver pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. His shoulders curled in. 

"I'm sorry, Colin," he whispered. "I should’ve—"

But he never finished the sentence.

And he didn’t see the faint twitch of fingers against the sheet.