SCOPE
You first saw him in the pictures Colin took. He brought a batch with
him when he came home for Christmas, that first year, and the first
thing you saw was how they moved. The people in the pictures were
moving, and that was what struck you, the motions of hands, the
smiles that would widen and change.
Later you started to notice the people in them. Someone who could only be a giant of some sort, with a bushy beard and a huge smile that never faltered. A man with black robes and hair and eyes, ignoring you entirely or glaring. A girl with messy brown hair, walking past, usually with a vaguely distracted look on her face. Sometimes she was with the black-haired boy Colin had excitedly told you was Harry Potter, but more often Harry was by himself, blushing and looking away. Colin always wanted to show you Harry, Harry, Harry, like he was the only person he ever saw. But you saw someone else, a dark-haired boy Colin only had one picture of, and when you asked who he was Colin said, "Oh, him. That's some Hufflepuff, I don't remember his name. Here's a great shot I got of Harry at breakfast last week..."
Everyone remembers his name now. Colin took some more pictures of him, during the tournament, and he wasn't always smiling, but there was a calm about him. Something quiet in his grey eyes, and if he was smiling or laughing or waving to the camera, it remained, the same as if he was just standing there.
He looked serene. He still does. You wonder sometimes if photos of the dead know. And you know, logically, why everybody keeps their voices to whispers when they talk about him, why the girls' eyes are sometimes red when you hear them say his name.
And yet you don't, because he's not gone for you, not really. You can see him any time you like, waving from the walls of your older brother's room.