MetaFic

"He's back," Harry whispered. "He's back. Voldemort."

The harshly whispered words softly echoed again in the mind of the boy sitting on the red and gold coverlet of his bed, staring at a photograph in his hand. This was not the picture he had expected to take. Not the picture of his hero returning in triumph from the maze, as Colin had been so sure that Harry would return. Sneaking into the dark fringes of the small crowd of people waiting at the exit from the tall hedges of the maze, he had been careful and quiet, a state that was difficult for him to maintain. After all someone had once described him as being like an eager, bumptious puppy. But he had been determined to get the best possible picture of Harry's win--a lasting positive proof that Harry did not stink and that the Slytherins were wrong. Therefore, at the first hint of movement at the edge of the maze, he had snapped the shutter of his camera.

Colin looked briefly out the dorm window at the brightening day and then down at the picture again. It was not something he really wanted to look at for long, but the shadowy scene held a fascination for him--an unwilling but strangely reassuring fascination --proof that it really had happened. It was not a nightmare. Cedric Diggory was dead. And, in the face of the first death he'd ever seen, the fairy tale Colin sometimes felt he'd been living in for the past three years had taken a dark, threatening and too real a turn.

His thoughts drifted back to the time when he had found out that he was a wizard. It had seemed as if one of the tales of fantasy that his father had so frequently read to him and his brother Dennis, had wildly, improbably come to life and he, he, the son of a milkman and a former teacher was at the center of a story of magic and adventure. He remembered eagerly questioning the quite small man in the strange clothes who had come to explain to his somewhat dazed parents that the letter from some place with the odd name of "Hogwarts" was indeed real, and that the strange things their sons had occasionally been doing were perfectly normal--if you were magical. Professor Flitwick had explained many things to them. He had described the castle of Hogwarts, talked about the things Colin could learn and mentioned some of the other students. That, Colin remembered, was when he had first heard the name of Harry Potter, whom the teacher had referred to as "The Boy Who Lived". When Dennis had commented on the nickname, the exuberant teacher had described the boy and how he had defeated a Dark Wizard. It had seemed to Colin then that this boy, only a year older than he himself, must be a hero like those in his favourite stories and maybe, if he and Colin became friends, they could together go on their own adventures.

Though the friendship he had dreamed about had not formed, Colin had found himself somewhat content to become an onlooker as Harry and his friends did indeed have amazing adventures. Colin felt that he had had a small role to play simply by being a fellow Gryffindor. And the time when he had been very involved in an adventure, by being petrified by a Basilisk, had made him realize that adventures sometimes were not as fun as they seemed to be in a book. The amount of work it had taken to catch up with almost a full school year's worth of studies before the next school year started had been daunting. He also remembered trying to really comprehend the idea of how close he had come to dying. Dying. That was something that he still hadn't really accepted or understood. It didn't feel connected to him somehow.

That thought made the boy look down at the picture in his hand again. He studied one of the two central figures in the picture closely, it's utter stillness in the midst of the other figures of the moving wizarding photo drawing and holding his eyes. He hadn't known Cedric well, though the few times they'd crossed paths the older boy had been friendly and helpful. He remembered the Headmaster's words at the Leaving feast last evening. That the seventh year boy had been murdered by Lord Voldemort, confirming what Colin had heard Harry whisper, so painfully, at the edge of the maze. You-Know-Who was back.

Dumbledore hadn't really said why Cedric had been killed. Just that he'd crossed paths with Voldemort. Surely, there had to be more of a reason than that, Colin thought. How could someone who had been alive and excited as he entered the maze be transformed into the still figure with the emptily staring eyes Colin saw in the picture? Was it really that easy, dreadfully easy, to end someone's life? Colin knew that he didn't know very much about Voldemort or why the Dark Wizard would choose to just kill someone for no apparent reason. He did remember that Professor Flitwick's long ago story of baby Harry and his survival of the Killing Curse had included something of the state of the Wizarding World and he knew that You-Know-Who hated Muggles and Muggle born Wizards. That, Colin realized, meant his parents and Dennis and himself. The thought startled Colin and he sat up straight, staring into the silent spaces of his dorm. Could someone really want to kill him and his family simply because of their family background? That was a...a...stupid reason! But, looking again at the photo, he realized with a shiver of foreboding and fear that it could indeed happen, the proof was there in his hand. And he, or any member of his family, could be left looking like that figure, somehow made smaller by it's stillness.

Colin contemplated that for a moment, feeling a bit sick to his stomach; thought of his jovial father, or his small, energetic mother or Dennis, who was both brother and best friend, being made into a figure of terrible stillness by death. Or, as he regarded the other central figure of the photograph, stared into it's anguished, bruised face and dulled green eyes, having anyone he loved made into a similar figure of grief and fear. He lifted his gaze to stare out the window at the now sunlit grounds of the castle, not really seeing the edge of the Forbidden Forest as fragments of thoughts bounced through his mind. What would happen now? What could or would anyone do to protect people from being hurt or killed by such an evil thing as You-Know-Who? He felt uncertain and very small remembering the chaos and the fear at the end of the Third Task. If even the adults felt helpless what could he do? As his thoughts churned, one fragmentary picture rose to the surface: being in the Library and seeing Hermione Granger at a nearby table, surrounded by books, while Ginny told him that the intently reading young witch was looking for spells that Harry would then practice with the help of his friends. Harry who, despite being so much younger than the other Champions, had indeed won the Tournament but also-- had escaped from Lord Voldemort.

Harry. That thought steadied Colin. If Harry Potter could learn spells with the help of friends, could then use those spells to fight and escape from evil, then others could do the same. He could do the same; become like the heroes of his childhood tales. He might not really understand fully why Voldemort would want to do such bad things or accept how quickly and easily death could come to anyone he cared about, but there was still something he could do. Again the Headmaster's words from last night repeated in his mind, "If the time should come when you have to make a choice...". Colin knew he'd already made his choice. He would learn and he would fight; like his heroes.

Standing up, he moved to his almost fully packed trunk and carefully laid the picture in the folder he used for his pictures. Closing the trunk lid, he straightened and then headed down the tower stairs to collect Dennis for breakfast in the Great Hall. He didn't want to be late for the train trip to King's Cross.

Fin