Don't know where this idea came from, but here it is. It's written in stream of consciousness, so it's following Dennis' thoughts more than the plot, which explains why it might be a bit difficult to follow at some points and why it seems to slip in and out of the present and past tense. I wanted it to show that he's there and he's not, if that makes sense.
A darker story, looking at post war life for a muggle borns family.
I am the last son. It is my job to continue the Creevey name, and it is my job to keep the bridge between the magical and muggle world strong.
My brother had two funerals at the same time, in the same graveyard. My parents didn't want to have to go through it twice, but didn't want to exclude anybody. So there I was, looking around at grim and confused faces as my fellow students wore their funeral robes and my relatives wore their nicest, blackest, stiffest clothes, looking at these intruders at the funeral of the newly lost, wondering what kind of accident at this strange school could kill such a young, healthy guy.
My parents, with their grim faces and lost voices, tried to convince me to speak, but I couldn't do it. I love, loved, my brother, but as close as we'd always been, I didn't know what to say. I convinced them to let someone from school do the talking, someone he had mentioned so many times, someone who would know what they were doing.
Standing at the podium waiting to speak, Ginny Weasley looked over her family, all of them had come, even those who hadn't known my brother. Hermione Granger was there, her eyes closed and her head on Ron's shoulder, but I knew she wasn't sleeping. Next to her was Harry Potter, the Harry Potter. It had been kind of him to come, my brother had confessed that he didn't think Harry was too fond of him.
"My name is Ginny, I was a school friend of Colins." Ginny started, addressing the muggle side, her voice wavered slightly. She glanced at my parents, my dad so tall and thin, he seemed stretched out, too thin, like he would break. My mother was the short one, very round, she had the figure of someone jolly. Usually her face was that of strength and endurance, but this day she was cradled in my father's arms a handkerchief at her eyes as she sniffled.
My brother and I inherited my father's weight and my mother's height. Thus the two of us have gotten used to being the smallest, told the only way to be normal height is to stand on the other's shoulders. I don't have anyone to stand on now.
"Colin was the first friend I made at school, and for awhile, the only. But it was okay, because even if you had no one else, Colin had the strength of three. He was small on the outside, but he was bold, and he was someone you could always rely on. Always. And you could always depend on him. Especially to blind you with the flash of his bloody camera." she let a smile slip as she said this last part, but looked down and wiped away the tears that were threatening to flow as she did.
My dad let a smile slide on, a very small one, but a smile none the less. He had given Colin his old camera, told him to make sure Dad's life became exciting as Colin's as he went off and learned magic. Several of his classmates let out little chuckles at the memory, their pictures were set out around the coffin, and bewitched to stay still for the muggle family. There are more of him and Ginny than anyone else.
Ginny kept talking, but my mind slipped away from her words. The wind was cool that day, making the formal robes not so unbearable. The muggle family occasionally looked confused, I considered confounding thing them, but decided against it. Magic still made Mum uncomfortable.
She had to be talked into letting the two of us go off to magic school, she didn't want us so far, but our dad had convinced, kept telling her how it would be good for us, how we hadn't ever really fit in at the local schools, and now we knew why.
As kids, our magic had just been ignored. The way Colin fell out of a tree and should have broken at least two bones from the crash, instead didn't have as much as a scratch. When Greg Dupont had tried to throw a baseball at me and it had missed me so narrowly, even though he was mere feet away and known for being the best pitcher in school. Greg Dupont did not attend the funeral.
My parents are at a loss, they don't know what to do. They have lost their son to a world they will be never be able to understand and are left with the son who cannot explain anything about it, I am at a constant loss. This day is hard on them, harder than most even realize. Because as confused as my family might be, in their muggle ways, they know this day is harder on my mum and dad than anyone could have ever before suspected at Hogwarts.
I knew he was going back, back to fight in the battle, I even tried to go with him. He forbade it, told me if I went, he would hit me with a spell to knock me out and then just hide my sleeping body, so I couldn't help even if I did go. He was so angry when he said, I know now why. Colin knew what he was in for. Despite his constant state of glee, he was very aware of who he was, how people saw him. He simply chose to be happy instead.
His solid tombstone sits there, standing so thick and strong, reading:
"Colin Matthew Creevey, January 5, 1982- May 2, 1998
Beloved Friend, Brother and Son.
May integrity and uprightness protect me, because my hope is in you. Psalm 25:21"
Next to it, another stone, already showing sings of aging reads:
"Aaron Jeremy Creevey, December 9, 1980-May 1, 1981
Beloved Son
Blessed be the young, for they alone remain innocent."
I am the last son. It is my job to try and fill the void of my parents who lost one son to magic, and another to a flu more powerful than their babys small body. I will forever carry the burden of the lost and will never have a brother to talk to and get a response.
I hate being who I am now, I want nothing more to run away and never come back and let the world think I am dead, too. I want to escape and be more than the brother of a dead fighter, to be my own person, to have my own life. But I cannot, I must stay and carry on my life and theirs. This is my responsibility and identity, for I am the last son.