Disclaimer: Neither the Harry Potter series or any of its characters are mine.

Just a short little thing about Mrs Creevey after Colin's death. I always loved Colin and felt that he wasn't appreciated by Harry, who often treated him as a mild annoyance, as much as he could have been. I like to think this was less so in later books but certainly in the Chamber of Secrets he was brushed to the side by his idol which must have been upsetting. He was too young to fight but brave enough to do it anyway and however short the reference of his death was in the book I was truly upset when he died.

Anyway, here it is.

Disappearing Angel.

My boy. My beautiful baby boy. So strong, so brave and so, so good.

My heart burst when I first saw you, sang while you grew and shattered when you were taken from me. No, not shattered. It was far worse than that. It had gone. Completely gone. It went with you and now there's just an aching, empty space in my chest. It pushes on my lungs day after day, the pressure gradually increasing, making it harder and harder to draw breath with each hour that passes.

Whoever said that time heals all wounds has obviously never lost a child. A quarter of my family had just gone. In the place of that quarter was a single grave, standing alone. That's my child. My son. My eyes trace the words but I can never quite grasp that it refers to you. Carvings on stone, meaningless patterns which when observed together, somehow, miraculously, spell out your name.

Colin Michael Creevey.

You're alone. But that doesn't make sense. That doesn't make sense at all. You were never alone. My boys were always together. You were inseparable as children, fighting occasionally as all siblings do but it never lasted long before you were pulling each other out to the garden to play, the upset over that broken crayon forgotten. Your brother was so upset when you left for Hogwarts, Colin. Inconsolable for days and so excited whenever he learnt you were coming back to him. You were his big brother, his idol, his unsung hero. Even now he looks up to you. He aspires to be as brave as you, as strong, as selfless. It's killing him trying to live up to the ghosts of the past.

In your First Year we were visited by Dumbledore himself. He came early one morning, as early as it was polite to knock on the door. Personally, I always thought he should have woken us up. Something was dreadfully wrong. You had been attacked late the night before. We listened as Dumbledore told us how you had been petrified with horror but it was worse for Dennis. He shook and cried and somehow would not, or could not, get his head around the fact that you were not dead.

We didn't let him visit. Maybe that was wrong. But from what Dumbledore had told us it was not safe; he didn't know what had hurt our first son and didn't want to put Dennis in such a dangerous situation. Dennis screamed and fought but in the end retreated to his room, staying silent and moody for days.

His mood didn't lift for months. We didn't get our light-hearted, cheeky little Dennis back until he saw his big brother, alive, safe and smiling, rushing towards him down platform nine and three quarters. The following year Dennis started at Hogwarts and the pair of you were together again.

You did everything together, went everywhere together. It never really registered that there would be a place he could not follow you to. It pains me to think that your final separation had to happen so soon, when you were both so young. But you went down showing the best of yourself. The bravery, the loyalty, the strength and the kindness all shone through until the end. You and Dennis grew side by side and fought whatever came your way side by side. You died, not with your brother but amongst friends. Dennis has already arranged to be buried next to you. As distressing as it is to see a son who is only in his early twenties prepare for death, it comforts me somewhat to know you will not lie alone for all eternity. He will join you once again. He'll come back to you, as you promised to do for him the first time you boarded the train for Hogwarts.

One day you will be joined in your slumber and the pair of you will lie in peace. Forever.

I can see you everywhere, memories engulfing me as I do the simplest of things. I make toast and I turn to see your bright, cheerful eyes smiling at me from the breakfast table.

I glance out of the window when I hear raindrops hitting the glass and imagine I see you and Dennis, shrieking in delight, jumping in the puddles. I have to stop myself calling you in to warm up and dry off in front of the fire in the living room and when I blink your images fade, like a bat melting into the night sky.

I hear you running from room to room upstairs with your brother, playing hide and seek, calling out when you find each other. Sometimes your father would join in when his interest in whatever else he was doing ran out. He would open the airing cupboard and swing whoever was hidden there above his head, round and round, until you were gasping for enough breath to laugh. How he loved to see you laugh. He would be grinning when he finally set you down, only to be tackled by the pair of you, the one who hadn't been found by him emerging from wherever he was concealed to engage his father in a huge hug.

How he loved you. He loved you both so much. We both did. You were a part of us, the best bits of ourselves merged into two perfect little boys. When we lost you it was as if we had lost a part of ourselves. We had lost the best part of ourselves.

Your father tries to hide it but he's struggling to cope just as much as I am. He doesn't speak any more. He used to be so outgoing, smiling all the time but since that day he's changed. Become darker, brooding and reticent. It scares me. And he doesn't talk to me. He can't talk to me about it. He's afraid it will hurt me to think about you. But you're on my mind all the time anyway, whether he talks about you or not, possibly more so in the echoing silence that has descended on the house.

You live on always in my head. It makes it so much harder to accept you're gone when I see and hear you everywhere and the pain when I see your grave is just as fresh as when I first heard of your death.

The cold, hard stone in front of me is so far removed from your warm, friendly personality that it just feels wrong. It's all wrong. Children aren't supposed to die so young. Nobody is.

The things I will never get to see hurt almost as much as the memories of the past. I'll never see you graduate school, get your own home, become independent, maybe get married and have children of your own. The thought causes the ache in my chest to double unexpectedly in intensity, stealing my breath and leaving me gasping for air, desperate to get oxygen to my body, silently screaming in agony though it is. The basic instinct to survive prevails, despite how much surviving hurts.

Maybe it will be alright one day. I can't see how right now. I can't see how this pain could possibly ease but I hope. I hope one day it won't seem so difficult to drag myself out of bed in the morning. I hope one day the day will seem a little brighter and, although I'll never forget you, the gaping wound in my chest will begin to heal.

Your name is recorded on this stone and on the official register for all to see and know that you were here, and you were good and brave.

The world will know you as one of the brave fighters of the War. I will know you as my dear child, my darling, the angel of my dreams.

I love you my beautiful, wonderful, brave angel. Forever.