A/N: expect angst and sadness. That's nothing unusual from me.

Numbers within brackets indicate footnotes.

Also, someone tell me why I end up writing oneshots when I really want to write drabbles?

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State Of Decay

In the end, you didn't believe in Harry Potter. In the end, you dared to believe in yourself.

They had used to call you a fanboy— a foolish kid, an annoying child, an irritant. Too overzealous.

They had also called you an abomination— the dirt under their expensive soles, a waste of space, a mudblood. Too unworthy.

Well, you weren't bleeding brown now, were you? Your blood was as red as theirs, as warm and spirited as theirs, possibly even more, as it drifted out of your body onto your white shirt. You got up, clutching your half sliced heart, the blood flowing between your bony fingers but you didn't cry from the pain.

Neville Longbottom had warned you a few hours back. "Go away," he had said. "You're underage,"

Underage as hell. Nobody was telling that to Ginny Weasley and she was younger than you. Nobody was telling that to Luna Lovegood and she too, was younger than you. Besides, you were turning seventeen tomorrow.

To hell with being called a stupid fanboy, you thought as you levelled your wand at the Death Eater who had turned his back upon you, mistaking you to be dead. This wasn't Harry's fight; this was your fight to protect all those you loved. Harry Potter was just a name out of the fairytales you had used to read as a child. Fairytales from a book called Hogwarts: A History.

This was reality and this was your only chance to save Dennis from a dark future. You hadn't sneaked back to swear your loyalty to The Boy Who Lived. You had come back to save your home— not Hogwarts, but your real one in the real world where brooms were just meant for cleaning and where postmen and not owls, delivered the mail.

"Abomination indeed," you muttered and then shouted, "Impedimenta!"

The man fell down in a squishy mess of limbs and in return, three more turned upon you. Your head was spinning; your eyes were blurry. A waste, an annoyance, an irritant, you remembered and focussed on the situation. They were nearing now.

"Stupefy," you managed. Somehow, one fell down and the other two continued to advance. You grinned, wiping off the sweat on your forehead with the back of your hand, not realising that your knuckles had left crimson trails of blood on there.

The two were speeding towards you now but you remembered you had weapons of your own making that no one around here possessed: cans that would release phosgene on exploding. Your cousin, Ernest was a professor of Chemistry at the University and you had stolen the materials you needed when your cousin had foolishly trusted you with the lab's key a few months ago when you had been hiding out at his house with Dennis.

You might only be good at the Jelly Legs Jinx when it came to magic but you always had your other means ready. You quickly glanced around if there were any allies near you. Thankfully, there were none.

You pulled out one can from your trouser pocket, desperately hoping that it would work, and threw it towards the approaching Death Eaters with whatever force you could muster. "Bombarda!" you whispered as you aimed your wand at the can. It went off with a small pop mid-flight and you immediately created a shield around yourself to prevent yourself from breathing in the poisonous air.

You couldn't help but feel like Ace who dropped her cans of Nitro Nine with zeal onto the enemies. [1]

The Death Eaters stopped moving, momentarily surprised, but then, just a second later, they thought that it was just a harmless explosion and hence, they continued their journey towards you, not realising that they were going to die within the passage of a few minutes.

"We're not afraid of these little tricks of yours, mudblood," one of them hissed over the warring cries. You didn't bother to retort.

They began firing spells and you concentrated on maintaining your shield. Then, quite suddenly, both of them began faltering and confusion reigned their visages. Froth and water emerged from their mouths and noses and they fell down on the ground, drowning in their own fluids, their faces writhing in pain, the bloody whites of the eyes being the only things visible in their eye sockets.

They plunged forward, guttering, choking and stuttering, just like in the poem [2], you realised, you had been taught during summer school all those years back.

You ran away— you only wanted to kill them, not to see them die. Your chest was heaving and breathing was becoming more difficult by the second. You were decaying but you didn't care. You had to prove to your classmates and tormentors that you weren't just a worthless boy who knew nothing about life and living.

You knew plenty.

You knew enough.

You knew about bleeding hands and scarred faces. You had seen many of those during the reign of The Toad called Dolores Umbridge. You had been one of those faces. You had almost died once, at the hands (eyes) of a monstrous snake, during your first year and perhaps only you and a handful of others knew how to live each day as your last in the entire School. They teased you for always sticking with your Argus Matchmatic. You didn't care; it wasn't your fault you kept your eyes glued to the viewfinder for reasons other than journalistic integrity. Reasons such as preserving your life.

You also knew that as you came into this world, something else was also born. You began your life, and it began a journey towards you. It moved slowly, but it never stopped. Wherever you went, whatever path you took, it would have followed. Never faster, never slower. Always coming. You would run, it would walk. You would rest, it would not. One day, you would linger in the same place too long. You would sit too still or sleep too deep. And when, too late, you rose to go, you would notice a second shadow next to yours. Your life would then be over.

Your running had made you reach the entrance gate and you climbed up the stairs. You had an inkling that you would encounter the metaphorical second shadow here but you did not lose hope. Instead, you took out another can and threw it just above the horde of Death Eaters approaching you, before blowing it to smithereens just as you had done earlier. You were heaving from the exertion.

You were excited that your invention was working. In your fury, you didn't realise that someone evil had crept behind you.

You turned around too late— the purple light of a spell unknown to you had already hit you square in the back. It didn't matter that you died this way, you thought as you fell down the stairs, a stream of blood gurgling forth from your lips. Your heart had been going to stop at any moment, anyway. Behind you, someone laughed hysterically.

You looked at the ominous grey skies one last time with your nearly lifeless brown eyes. Your short life flashed before you. You saw your brother and you smiled.

I hope I was able to protect you, Dennis.

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Footnotes:

State Of Decay: Name of a Classic Who episode starring Tom Baker.

[1] Ace is a character from Classic Who, who is known for her home made explosives ("Nitro Nine") and their effectiveness.

Why Classic Who references?

This is because I have a headcannon that the Creevey brothers were fanatic Whovians as little children.

[2] The Poem: reference to Dulce et Decorum Est, a powerful WW1 poem by Wilfred Owen, which highlighted the plight of the soldiers on the front.

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All that being told, now are you going to review?

Thanks for reading this silly story of mine though.

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EDIT 17-05-2016: THIS STORY IS NOW A PART OF A MUCH LARGER STORY ARC, called Decayverse. Colin isn't dead here, yet. His death comes in 'Choking On Unspoken Words', just after the last scene in here. Don't worry, it's a one-shot.