The Watcher
Note: this takes place during the fourth book, I don't remember hearing much about Colin in that book, except for at the beginning, so that's why it's here!
Colin Creevy was sitting out on the steps to Hogwarts, all alone, for he didn't have any real friends. His brother may have been like a friend to him sometimes, but it's just not the same! Everyone thought of him as the little annoying kid, even though he wasn't quite as little as he once was. He was about the average for a thirteen year old. He sat there watching, watching as others played some muggle game, he wasn't sure what, though. All he knew was that it involved what looked somewhat like a tennis racket, only wider, what looked a lot like a tennis ball, and hitting the ball off a wall.
The only reason he was even sitting there was to watch, yes watching was practically the only thing he did now of days. For once in his lifetime he actually wanted to cry, but something made him hold back. Then he remembered what that something was whenever he saw someone crying it made him feel sad, too. He didn't want anyone else to feel bad. No he'd never wish that on anyone. He may have wanted to beat some people up, but that was just in a flash of anger. He took in a deep breath, and let it out in a long sigh.
He continued to watch, it looked like a worthwhile game. (I know what the game is, anyone ever heard of, racquetball?) He may have wanted people to know how he felt, but he dare not tell them by crying, and at the moment he didn't think he could talk very well either. He just sat there watching, constantly watching. Someone suddenly hit what he heard was an "ace" and not knowing if that was good or bad he decided this was getting boring, so he went back up to his dorm. He found a note on his dresser, in very legible handwriting.
He read to himself. It turned out to be a few pages long and sounded very much like something Edgar Allan Poe would write. It was very strange, yet wonderful drama in the way of how everything was described. He looked for the author's signature. There wasn't one. Who wrote this? He thought. All he really knew about the person was that chances were they read a lot of Edgar Allan Poe and Stephen King.
His father had never been much of one for either Drama, or horror, but his mother was a completely different story. He remembered times when she'd be up at midnight reading some book. He had even read one of Edgar Allan Poe's stories, The Telltale Heart (that would be my favorite of his that I've read, consider that I haven't read The Raven yet). That had been freaky; it was that last line that really got to him, but beyond that he had loved it.
He looked back down at the story. Dare he find out who wrote it? No, it might embarrass whoever it was. That and he'd get his old nickname back and he didn't care to do that. Instead he found a folder and quickly put the story in there. He had always had that folder just in case he wanted to write a story, but he never had, he had been too busy with photography. He sighed, a deep heavy sigh, as he wondered who wrote that. Then he realized who it had to be, Dennis!
Then he thought some more, Dennis never did like drama, and there was no way he wrote it! He was thinking so hard it made his brain hurt. He forced it out of his mind, as he found a book to read. He had always been one to read before bed, even though it didn't seem much like him. He could be two completely different people, there was his skeptical side, which made him seem like a geek, and then there was the side that was so into photography.
He didn't name his personalities; he thought that was a stupid thing to do (I can be two completely different people, and I don't name them, though I have an alter-ego). He hadn't been feeling this crummy for long, but he already knew he wanted to stay up until dark, for some reason the dark helped with his case. Maybe he should have been born nocturnal, I don't know, and I don't think he does either. It helped with the depressing feeling, and he just felt so different. He continued to read, until everyone who slept in his dorm had arrived, he then quickly turned off his lamp and put his book on his bedside table.
He woke up the next morning feeling the same, but he knew something had changed. He looked in the mirror and immediately knew what it was. His eyes weren't they're normal color, for they had this odd outcast of red and orange, but not red/orange, the two colors weren't mixed. He couldn't help but stare, he somehow knew nobody would notice though, except maybe his brother. Still, his brother was busy talking to people of all sorts. Somehow his brother had managed to make loads of friends perhaps because he never whined.
Yet there was something about how his eyes had changed color over night that he thought had been interesting. Then a sarcastic thought came into his mind that didn't brighten, nor darken the situation, so what am I going to do now conduct a study!
It might have lightened his day a bit, had he felt like laughing. His sighs were continuous. That day however something had managed to squirm into his life and make it hurt worse. He had over heard a group of Hufflepuffs that day, "hey, Colin's actually been shutting up lately! Do you think he's finally realized why he has no friends! Last time I saw him his mouth was going a mile a second!"
He knew he shouldn't have, but once he heard his name mentioned he had stopped dead in his tracks. Then he noticed how that horse was already dead as a doornail (it's a figure of speech meaning it's clichéd to the point where he knows too much about how often they say that). All the same it hurt to know. In a perfect world if anything bad was said about someone no one around the speaker would listen, and the person would never find out.
He knew they were listening, due to the laughs he had heard. He didn't know how much of this he could take. He had heard his name mentioned several times in mocking voices. It was then that he wanted to show everyone how he felt, but no, he was feeling way too secretive to let that happen. That night the dark didn't relieve his pain, as he had gone through better than half the day feeling like a thousand needles had been pulled out of his heart (little known secret, it doesn't hurt to have a needle in your foot, unless it goes in fast, it hurts to take it out, I know from experience).
Now he was in agony, and he really wished that someone would walk up to him and tell him it didn't matter what those other people thought, and that they were just a bunch of no-goods! He was to good an actor for anyone to know something was wrong, unless they were family. He wrote to his parents like everything was just fine. He didn't want them involved. They may have helped, but he just didn't want them to know for some reason.
Then four days later he was feeling at an all time low, he was really lonely. Then he decided that he had to keep strong, he didn't like it, but emotionally he tried to stay unaffected, but there were times when that just didn't work. As much as he may have wanted to completely break down he kept all his strength that he still had. Then one day, he couldn't take it. He had heard another insult, and just grew tired of it. He ran all the way until he came to a tree (I know what you're thinking and that's not what's going to happen, for he lives) he quickly climbed it (I already told you, no) and just sat there on a sturdy branch. He was panting from exhaustion. He had to get away from the problem for a while. He held his breath and counted to ten.
He waited until he knew he could go back and handle this, in the meantime he felt like screaming at the top of his lungs how he felt, but he forced himself not to. It took a while, but he managed. The only reason he had ran was because no matter how much he wanted to he knew he shouldn't hurt anyone. The only alternative was to run. He went back, at a slow walk. He couldn't believe he had just done that, but since he had he knew this wasn't going to go on much longer. He knew that he must've been going crazy because he had been trying to write a story based on this.
Then out of the blue it hit him. It didn't matter that other people thought he was annoying. All that really mattered was what he thought of himself. He then ran up to his dormitory and knew what he had to do. He took his story and ripped it to pieces and threw in the wastebasket. He didn't care anymore! Right before he threw it away he said, "to happy times and no more insults!" Then he did something he hadn't done in a while, he lowered his head so part of it touched his back and laughed, it wasn't a cold laugh either, but a nice hearty one!
He knew he may not ever have forgotten this, but he didn't care. He continued to laugh until some people in the hall below had heard him. Everyone who heard just thought it was insane guy who was about to kill someone, but didn't make anything of it because when they thought that they were being sarcastic. Then he realized that he was now the former watcher, not the watcher, which made him even happier. He then decided to go talk to some of the people who hadn't been insulting him.
Maybe like two days later.
He was walking down the hall talking with some of his new friends when someone walked up to him and said, "Oh so the lil' annoying kid has some friends, I'm just touched!"
"I'm sorry for you, really, really sorry because it is now proven that you have no life! Go out and get one next time you decide to talk to me," he had said. He turned to walk away but then turned on his heel and said, "That used to faze me, used to! That was before I realized that you're just a sad, sad person!"
Whoever it was that had insulted him now had their mouth open to the point where you could use it to catch flies. "On last thing, though, you don't want flies in your mouth, do you? If you don't I suggest you not gape like that, so as you don't catch any." He knew that hadn't been exactly the nicest thing he could've said, but he could've said a lot meaner things. That night he went to sleep, knowing it was all over.
Author's note: I don't know what to say, original SI, SI, SI! I can't make up my mind if it's good or not! I've written better under the name of my alter ego, I know that, wait just let me read this again. I like it, trust me I've written much better, but that's to long a story. I like the very last sentence a lot, though! Then again, who doesn't!
Disclaimer: Colin Creevy and Hogwarts belong to J.K Rowling. The idea of a Colin sympathy fic as far as I know belongs to me! Now you can all kiss my feet, I'm just kidding.