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title: Creevey the Observant date: july 19, 2002 When Colin comes back from the Hogwarts term break, he bumps into Draco Malfoy. Malfoy steps back, startled for a minute. He opens his mouth as if he were about to say something and Colin thought: Oh no, not again -- then Malfoy just turns and walks away, tight-lipped. Flint detaches himself from a nearby shadow, drapes his arm across Malfoy’s shoulders, inclines his head in Colin’s direction, blew Colin a mocking kiss, mouths at Malfoy’s ear. Malfoy’s shoulders twitch and shudder. Once they turn the corner, Colin can hear the sound of clenched fist hitting angular cheekbone. Sado-masochism; Colin’s heard of it, but isn’t quite sure of what it is. He walks away, hands wrapped around his books, before he can hear the shouting, sobbing, and subsequent silence. The next day, Colin is daydreaming by the Lake with Hermione, whose books are spread like a fan across the lush grass. Her Muggle card notes are being alphabetized and cross-referenced from one subject to another; the air tastes of laziness and Hermione reeks of paranoia. “The exams are almost here, oh no, I haven’t yet re-written my notes for History of Magic, you know I can’t study unless I can section the information off with coloured ink and make flow charts and Venn diagrams where the curriculum overlaps with another one,” over and over again; as if Hermione’s Buddha sitting under the Fig Tree of Frantic Anxiety, having constant epiphanies over coming failures. Colin chews on a stalk of grass, wondering vaguely if Hogwarts uses pesticides, and if he might choke and die on this one, insignificant stalk of grass, and who could possibly care? Harry has gone off with a girl from Ravenclaw and spends all waking hours with her, tailing her, shadowing her like she’s the Snitch he’s got to catch no matter what; the rest of the time he waxes very bad lyrical about her. Somehow it demystifies Harry and turns him into a shy, bumbling schoolboy. The photographic subject lost its beauty and mystery (like: How did he defeat Voldemort again? How does his hair stay so perfectly messy? Are his eyes really the colour of fresh pickled toad?). Colin might admit, now, to having a bit of a schoolgirl crush on Harry, because the way he was so composed but in pieces; the Boy Who Lived whose life broke up when his parents were killed, but pieced it all together with tape, with all its secretive holes and patches. But the Ravenclaw girl fills them up with mediocre puppy love. Subjectively, Colin abandoned the subject. Malfoy’s barely noticed and isn’t insulting Harry or any other potential target anymore and the Slytherins are sullen and silent in class; Ron is avoiding Hermione at every occasion and Hermione is avoiding the thought of Ron avoiding her altogether. Maybe they would start ignoring him too, there was a thought... The surface of the lake ripples. Well, Ron was mostly playing chess against himself; it was almost as if he could reconcile the invisible opponent within himself if he, for once, won the chess match. He never did. He outwitted himself every time; and would get mad at himself. Stomp around the dorm a bit... From the other side of the lake, something ripples and breaks the surface. And then once, Hermione had bumped into him, when he was red-faced and angry from losing another match against himself. They’d gaped at each other and veered straight off in the opposite direction, which unfortunately for Hermione, was a wall. She stared at the stone for a bit and stumbled off, pinching her nose and squeezing her eyes. Sorry, my allergies are back again, she’d said very loudly for everyone to hear. A head floats up. Once, Ron had told him in a fit of anger: “Why do you bloody hang around us so much? Don’t you have your own friends? You and your stupid camera!” But Ron is lovesick so Colin excuses him. Anyway, Colin hasn’t been taking photographs for a while; Harry was his only subject and now Harry’s gone. His camera lies still under a wad of dog-eared photographs. And no, it’s not a head, it’s a face. The skin off a head. Water streams through its ragged, empty eyelids and through the gaping mouth. It’s been there for a while; it’s white and bloodless. Bogged down by the rest of the skin trailing after it, from skull to toes, it drifts with its tuft of white-blonde hair. Something boy-sized, pink and washed clean and gleaming from the lake water unearths itself on the shore. Later on, the commotion is tremendous. Colin would have liked to take a picture of that |
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