Inheritance
If Dennis had thought that Alya's pregnancy had been difficult to live through, the birth itself was a thousand times worse.
The Healers had said that her body had sustained too much damage – a curse taken at Hogwarts during that terrible battle they tried not to think about – for her to ever bear children safely, but she had proved them wrong. Every time they predicted some tragedy, his wife beat the odds, half-terrorizing Dennis in the process.
He was terrified her luck would go out now, that she would leave him all alone, taking their every dreams and hopes with her to the grave the Healers kept describing.
The cry of a newborn felt like a liberation.
"And what's this lucky boy name?" The midwife asked, a soft smile on her face.
Speechless, Dennis let Alya answer. This tiny, prefect human being was his son. How was this possible?
Alya took their son in her arms. She looked exhausted but radiant. "Colin. His name is Colin. It's family name," she added with
Dennis felt the air exit his lungs like he had been dealt a great blow. His throat was too tight to speak, and his eyes prickled with tears, and in the end he simply nodded gratefully, too touched for words.
.x.
Colin's father always looked sad when he talked to him. It lasted barely more than a fraction of a second, but it was enough for Colin to notice.
He asked his mother, because clearly this subject was painful to his father and he didn't want to hurt him anymore, but his mother just smiled very softly, and for a moment she looked sad too.
"It's not that you hurt him, sweetie," she said, drawing him into a warm, comforting embrace, "it's that you remind him of someone he used to love very much, just like he loves you now."
"Who was he?" Dennis immediately asked, his eyes perking up toward his mother.
His mother chuckled fondly, her eyes suddenly looking far away. "His brother – your uncle, Colin."
"Colin, you mean like me?" He exclaimed, enthused at knowing that he had been named after someone else his family loved.
"Exactly like you," she replied with a smile. "In fact, we named you after him. He was a hero, you know – a brave man who left us too soon."
Dennis stayed solemnly silent for a few moments, digesting this information, before he spoke again, his tone more curious than ever.
"Say mum, if dad loved this other Colin so much, why does he never talk about him?"
"Some things are just too painful sometimes, and I think that for your father, this is one of those things. He'll tell you in his own time, I think," she explained, her eyes inexplicably warm.
"Alright then," Dennis nodded.
.x.
He found the box on his bed two days later.
It looked old, and it definitely wasn't magical at all, except for a few old stickers still attached to it, proclaiming in bright, flashing or moving colors, Ireland's win over Bulgaria.
Inside the box, neatly stacked and well-preserved, aid hundreds of moving clichés in black and white.
Above them rested a little white note, his father nearly illegible handwriting a familiar picture, and an old camera.
The note read: These were my brother's. I think he would have liked you to have them.
Yes, Colin thought, his fingertips slowly caressing the black casing of the camera. Yes, I can do something with this.
