Word Count: 641


The war is over. The battle has been won. All around him, people cheer and shout and call for drinks. But Filius cannot bring himself to stop and sit among them. He slips out of the Great Hall, his short stature making it easy for him to go unnoticed, and makes his way through the corridors.

It is a sad day all around, but the heaviness in his heart is unbearable. Tears sting his eyes as he looks around. The castle is in ruins, but it can be rebuilt. But the bodies that litter the corridor… Those lives cannot be brought back; the lives of those they've left behind will never be the same, and no magic can fix it.

He sighs and makes his way through the corridors, easily staying out of sight. Everyone is too caught up in their strange combination of grief and relief to notice him at all. Once he is in his office, he closes the door behind him and summons his favorite powder-blue tea cup. Another wave of his wand, and the kettle hovers over the fireplace. Merlin knows he wants something stronger, but he knows himself well enough to know that alcohol and grief seldom mix well.

With another heavy sigh, he takes a seat. In this moment, Filius can only see one face through the haze of sadness and regret.

Colin Creevey had been so young. He had never been particularly good at Charms, but what he lacked in skill, he made up in enthusiasm. Filius can so clearly see those eager eyes and bright smile.

And now he is gone, and it's all Filius' fault. If he had been a little faster… If he had realized Colin was outnumbered just a moment sooner… If he had done a thousand things differently, he wouldn't have seen that green light sink into the boy's chest. He wouldn't have seen his student become a ragdoll and collapse in a pitiful heap on top of the rubble.

On fool dwell on what if and could have been. He knows this, and yet he cannot help it.

"I have never seen you so distraught, my dear Filius."

He looks up. Rowena Ravenclaw has returned to her portrait. She looks down at him, smiling sadly. He cannot bring himself to respond. Instead, he summons the whistling kettle and pours his tea before adding milk.

"I saw what happened to the boy," Rowena says softly. "You mustn't blame yourself.'

"And yet, I do." He closes his eyes for a few seconds. When he opens them again, silent tears trickle down his cheeks.

"I know."

He swallows dryly. He knows the story of Rowena and her daughter, how Rowena had sent the baron for Helena, how Helena was murdered. Does Rowena carry that same grief with her, even after death? Is there truly no escape from the pain?

"It is not easy," she continues, sitting in her chair within the canvas. "Some things never leave us. Not truly. But you are good, Filius Flitwick."

His lips twitch. He doesn't feel good. A boy is dead because of him. A student. A child he was meant to protect.

"You will heal. Slowly but surely, you will find your way again," she tells him. "And then you will be a beacon of hope once again. That is what the children love about you. I hear them sometimes." She laughs. "They say you are always happy, that it makes them want to be happy too."

Happiness seems like such a foreign concept. The shadow of death and pain loom over him, and he cannot seem to shake it.

But maybe she is right. Somehow, he will heal. Somehow, he will smile again, if not for his sake, then for the students'.

In the end, one way or another, he will make it through.