Colin Lives!

The rest of the afternoon passed in a slow, quiet rhythm, each moment stretching between routine and something heavier—something unspoken. Oliver found himself moving through it like a visitor stepping cautiously through someone else’s grief, careful not to disturb, careful not to intrude.

Dennis had taught him how to help more and Oliver found himself falling into rhythm with Dennis—checking monitors, adjusting pillows, measuring medications. The shock of seeing Colin so broken had passed, leaving behind determination. Oliver was careful now, more deliberate when handling Colin—when helping Dennis turn him, when adjusting blankets, when checking for anything that seemed out of place. It was a strange, necessary intimacy, and Oliver found himself settling into it, like a pattern learned through practice.

In the quiet moments between tasks, Oliver caught glimpses of the boy Dennis used to be—quick grins when Oliver fumbled something, dramatic eye-rolls at particularly bad jokes.

But there were moments where Oliver kept his distance too, particularly from Mrs. Creevey. She moved like a shadow through the house, quietly existing around them rather than with them. She never spoke to him directly, never even looked his way if she could avoid it. It was easier, Oliver thought, to stay out of her way.

When Mrs. Creevey's footsteps sounded on the stairs, Dennis shot Oliver a warning look. "Mum's break," he mouthed.

Oliver retreated to the window, trying to make himself as unobtrusive as possible. Through the glass, he could see the rolling hills of Flintshire in the distance, the landscape so different from the Scottish highlands he'd grown up with. Since their silent moment in the garden, he'd been careful to keep his distance from Mrs. Creevey, acutely aware of his status as an intruder in her grieving space.

She entered with a small jar of something—balm or lotion, Oliver guessed—and sat beside Colin without acknowledging either of them. Her movements were gentle as she unscrewed the lid, the scent of lavender filling the room. With practiced care, she began massaging Colin's hands, working the cream into his dry skin.

"The doctor said it would help with circulation," she said quietly, not looking up. "And prevent cracking."

Dennis nodded. "I'll do it next time, Mum."

"I know you will." Her voice held a note of tired resignation, as though Dennis had taken on far too many responsibilities and she couldn't bring herself to stop him. "But I can manage this."

Oliver slipped out of the room as Mrs. Creevey continued her tender ministrations, her voice a soft murmur as she told Colin about the daffodils and roses in the garden. 

Later, Oliver found himself alone with Colin. The afternoon sun cast warm patches across the bed, turning Colin's hair golden at the edges. The quiet buzz of the monitors filled the space between them. Their rhythmic beeping, strangely soothing, had become almost comforting. So long as they beeped, Colin was alive.

It was different, being alone with Colin like this. No one watching. No one needing him to do anything.

So, Oliver spoke.

"Just me now, Col," Oliver said, settling into the chair beside the bed. "Your mum's making tea. Probably hoping I'll take the hint and leave soon."

He smiled, imagining Colin's response—some quick quip about his mother's subtle-as-a-bludger hints, perhaps. The Colin in his mind was always animated, bright-eyed, full of movement.

"You've got everyone fussing over you," Oliver continued, resting his elbows on his knees. "Dennis doesn't leave your side. Your mother's handling all your doctors. Your father's working overtime for the medical bills." A pause. "And I'm... well, I'm here too. Doing what I can."

The room felt different. More intimate. The pressure to maintain appearances momentarily lifted. Oliver found himself relaxing into it.

At first, Oliver just talked to fill the silence—small things, half-hearted stories, awkward updates about the Quidditch league standings, mundane observations about the weather, anything to avoid the weight of Colin's stillness. But gradually, his words found an easier rhythm and the silence no longer felt oppressive. 

"You know, I used to catch you watching me during Quidditch practice." Oliver smiled at the memory. "Always with that camera. Always ready with a million questions afterward." A soft laugh. "Drove me mental sometimes, but... I liked it too. Your enthusiasm. Like nothing could ever get you down."

He made a joke about a match gone wrong and let out a short laugh. One joke became two. Two became an entire embarrassing story about some pranks by the Weasley twins that involved see-through towels after Quidditch showers.

His laughter filled the room that had known too little of it lately, the sound warm and unexpected even to his own ears.

A moment later, the door creaked.

Oliver turned to see Mrs. Creevey standing in the doorway, her eyes wide, hopeful.

“He’s—” she started, her voice breathless.

And Oliver’s stomach dropped.

Because her expression changed. Her shoulders sank when realization hit: Colin hadn’t laughed. He hadn’t moved. It had only been Oliver filling the silence.

Oliver started, scrambling for words. “I-I was just talking to him.”

Mrs. Creevey’s face smoothed over into something unreadable. She nodded once, stiffly, then turned and walked away without a word.

Oliver exhaled, feeling his pulse in his throat. He turned back to Colin, brushing a hand through his own hair.

“Well, that was awkward,” he muttered, trying to ignore the way his face burned.

LDennis dragged Oliver outside later that afternoon. The air was crisp, the grass cool underfoot. Dennis had already started kicking a football toward the back of the garden. He moved effortlessly, by Oliver's unpracticed perception, and Oliver hesitated, watching him for a moment, before stepping onto the lawn.

Dennis passed the ball to him. Oliver caught it underfoot, awkward, uncertain. He shifted slightly, before nudging it forward experimentally. It didn't feel right to him. He wasn't used to this kind of weight, this kind of balance.

Dennis, moving effortlessly, took the ball back and flicked it in a tight motion. There was a rhythm to it, but one that Oliver didn't recognize and couldn't quite follow.

"Pass it back," Dennis said, positioning himself between two garden gnomes that served as makeshift goalposts.

Oliver awkwardly kicked the ball, sending it wide of Dennis and into Mrs. Creevey's prized rosebush. 

Dennis, wide-eyed, said, "And you're the professional athlete? That was terrible." Then, realization hit: "You've never played before. That's okay, I'll teach you. Watch..."

What followed was thirty minutes of complete humiliation for Oliver. Dennis, despite being significantly smaller, ran circles around him, nutmegging him at every opportunity, celebrating each goal with increasingly elaborate dances. Oliver found himself laughing despite his wounded pride, chasing after Dennis with determination if not skill.

They passed the ball back and forth, Dennis offering corrections that sounded a lot like the way Oliver coached younger Quidditch players. It was easy, familiar, and Oliver felt something loosen in his chest.

"You're terrible at this," Dennis declared after scoring his sixth consecutive goal. "Absolutely dreadful."

Oliver bent over, hands on his knees, breathing hard. "Yes, well, not everyone can be brilliant at everything, can they?"

"Colin's worse," Dennis offered, which Oliver suspected was a lie meant to make him feel better. "Falls over his own feet half the time."

Oliver straightened, studying Dennis's face. Despite the teasing and the exertion, there was something fragile in his expression—a rawness that all the practiced caretaking couldn't quite hide.

"You miss him," Oliver said softly. "The real him, I mean. Not just..."

"He's my brother." Dennis kicked too hard, sending the ball rolling into the flower beds.

Oliver jogged after the ball, but as he reached down to pick it up, he froze. His eyes locked onto the row of ceramic garden gnomes. He stood there, transfixed, ball in hand, and waited. And waited more.

Dennis noticed. He jogged over to Oliver and looked up at him, following Oliver's gaze. "What? What is it?" he asked, frowning.

Oliver’s voice was oddly quiet. "They... they're not moving." Oliver nudged one with his foot. 

Dennis blinked. "Of course they’re not moving. They're just..." Dennis echoed Oliver and nudged a gnome.

“Thought you would have the magical kind.”

Dennis shook his head. “Nah. Just normal, boring gnomes from Tesco's.”

Oliver smirked. “Well... normal for now. I could show you a thing or two..."

Dennis narrowed his eyes. “If you enchant my mum’s gnomes—”

“I would never,” Oliver said solemnly, then promptly burst into laughter at Dennis’s horrified expression.

For the first time since Oliver had arrived, the garden felt alive. He wasn’t thinking about Colin. Or about Mrs. Creevey. Or about how much everything in the Creevey house felt like waiting. The sky had deepened to navy, the air crisp with the onset of night. Behind them, the kitchen light flicked on. The sound of Mr and Mrs Creevey cooking dinner together. 

Just for a second, Oliver felt like maybe things would be okay.

The sun had begun dipping toward the horizon. Mr. Creevey had been watching them from the back steps for some time, leaning against the doorframe, arms folded, dish towel slung over his shoulder.

When Dennis finally caught his breath, stretching his arms above his head, his father called over.

"Come on, lads. Dinner’s ready."

Dennis scooped up the football and jogged toward the house. Oliver followed more slowly, brushing the dirt from his palms as he approached the house.

He caught the small smile on Mr. Creevey's face as he ruffled Dennis's hair when he walked past.

"Hope you like stew," Mr. Creevey said as they entered. "It's nothing fancy, but it's hot."

The kitchen was warm and smelled of onions and beef and mint and rosemary. The table was small, the setting plain, but the food was warm and simple—stew, minty peas, thick slices of bread. Mr. Creevey served up portions without much comment, while Mrs. Creevey barely glanced in Oliver’s direction, keeping her focus on her plate. The scrape of cutlery against ceramic filled the room, punctuated by the occasional word between Dennis and his father.

"Thank you for having me," Oliver said as he took the seat across from Dennis. "It smells brilliant."

"You're staying in our home," Mrs. Creevey replied, her voice carefully level. "Of course we'd feed you."

Mr. Creevey ladled stew into each bowl. "I was just telling Sylvia about the football match. Been a while since we've seen Dennis running about like that."

"I'm rubbish at it," Oliver admitted, trying to ease the tension. "Dennis ran circles around me."

"That's 'cause you've got feet like a troll," Dennis said through a mouthful of bread, then caught himself. "Sorry, Mum."

The stew was simple but good—hearty chunks of beef and potatoes in rich gravy. Oliver ate carefully, aware of the weight of Mrs. Creevey's gaze. 

Then, in an attempt to contribute, Oliver asked something casual—perhaps too casual. "Did Colin always play football with you growing up, Dennis? Or was he more into photography back then too?"

The scrape of Mrs. Creevey's fork against her plate cut through the air like a shot. She set it down with deliberate care, her eyes fixed on her half-eaten stew. The room tensed. She took a sharp breath, eyes fixed on the table, her fingers tightening around the edges of her napkin.

"Excuse me," Mrs. Creevey said, voice clipped, before rising from her chair and moving toward the sink. She busied herself with something that didn’t need doing, her back rigid, shoulders stiff.

Dennis stilled. Mr. Creevey set down his glass carefully, like he had prepared for this inevitability. 

"Two left feet, that one," Mr. Creevey said with a forced smile, filling the sudden silence.

"He'd try though," Dennis added, sitting up straighter. "Every single time."

The sound of running water stopped. Mrs. Creevey stood at the sink, her back to the table, shoulders rigid, gripping a dishcloth.

"He was ten when we got him his first camera." Her voice was quiet but carried across the kitchen. "Did odd jobs around the neighborhood. Saved up his pocket money for months."

The words were an offering. A small truth about her son, given freely. But not forgiveness. Not even close.

"It was all he talked about for weeks," she continued softly. "Timing. Light and shadow. He learned all the technical terms. He was always curious. Always... looking for beauty in—"

Her knuckles whitened around the cloth. "He was always curious. Always... looking for beauty in—"

A sharp inhale cut her words short. She placed the cloth on the counter with deliberate care.

"Excuse me," she said, and walked briskly from the kitchen.

Mr. Creevey half-rose from his chair. "Sylvia—"

But she had already fled the kitchen. He sank back down, shoulders slumped.

Dennis pushed a potato across his plate, the scrape of fork against ceramic painfully loud. Above them, floorboards creaked as Mrs. Creevey entered Colin's room.

Oliver set his spoon beside his half-finished stew. The contrast was stark—their casual dinner conversation while Colin lay upstairs, fed through tubes, withering away.

He may be an athlete, but he wasn't stupid. Mrs. Creevey's message was clear without a single accusation spoken. Colin's bedroom was just above their heads, his condition a constant presence. And Oliver, sitting at their table, represented the world that had put him there.

Oliver kept his head down and finished his meal, suddenly keenly aware that no matter how much he tried to fit in here, there were parts of this house that might never fully let him in.

When dinner was over, Mr. Creevey stood and started gathering plates without a word. Dennis followed suit, stacking dishes and bringing them to the sink. Oliver, unsure but unwilling to sit idle, joined them. The three of them worked in near silence—Dennis scrubbing, Oliver drying, Mr. Creevey putting things away. The only sounds were the quiet clink of porcelain, the rush of water from the tap, the scrape of cutlery against plates.

Oliver knew that Mrs. Creevey had retreated into Colin’s room, where she belonged far more than Oliver ever could. It was better this way, he supposed. Easier. But the tension still sat heavy in his chest.

Finally, the last dish was put away, and the three of them dispersed—Dennis and Oliver heading upstairs in silence, their footsteps soft against the wooden floors. 

Before they reached their rooms, Dennis hesitated outside his door. He didn’t say anything at first, but Oliver saw it—the way his shoulders tensed, the way his hands curled into fists at his sides, the way his breath came just a little too slow, a little too measured.

Finally he said, "I'm glad you're here," so quiet it barely registered. He looked on the verge of breaking, his usual steadiness fraying at the edges.

Oliver wanted to reach out—to squeeze his shoulder, to pull him into a hug, to do something. But the door to Colin’s room creaked open before he could move, and Mrs. Creevey stepped out, her face unreadable save for the puffy eyes. Without acknowledging either of them, she made her way back downstairs.

The moment passed, slipping away into the quiet of the house as Dennis slipped into his room. Oliver watched him go before finally turning to go into his own room. He could still see the accusatory stares of the garden gnomes, still hear the echo of Dennis’s laughter in the backyard, still remember the way Mrs. Creevey had looked when she thought Colin was waking up.

And he could still feel Colin’s hand in his, warm but unmoving, when he’d said goodnight.