Through Green-Tinted Lenses
School: Beauxbatons
Theme: A character's jealousy impacting their actions
Mandatory Prompt: [Character] Colin Creevy
Additional Prompt: [Event] A funeral
Year: 1
Wordcount: 2688
Warning: Canon character death
Hundreds of people sat in rows of long wooden benches on the grassy green grounds of Hogwarts. A young mother sat clutching her baby behind a balding old man with a face full of wrinkles. Couples sat entwined, comforting each other, while a widower squeezed a hand that was no longer there. Even the Saviour himself was present, sitting in the first row with the She-Weasel and the other members of the Golden Trio.
There were no Death Eaters other than Draco. Why would there be, when the purpose was to honour the Fallen Fifty—those who had died as heroes, defending Hogwarts from the evil of Lord Voldemort and his Death Eaters?
Draco took a deep breath and held his head high as he slipped into the last row. A wave of murmurs swept through the crowd. A red-haired man whipped out his wand and pointed it at Draco before he was yanked back down by other members of his family. Still, Draco did not bow to their glares or harsh words. He was there to pay his respects, no matter what others said about him.
At the front, upon a dais, stood a line of white marble tables—one for each person who had died—but Draco only cared about one of them.
Colin Creevey.
Draco's life had revolved around Colin for so long that Draco could barely remember what it was like to not have Colin constantly in his thoughts.
Draco strode into the Great Hall with a smile on his lips and a bounce in his step. This year was his moment to shine. Even as a Malfoy, not many people took him seriously as a first-year, but now, he was a second-year; now, he had power. His father had hinted that something exciting was happening this year, warning him to stay out of the way and enjoy the spectacle. Most importantly, Potter hadn't shown up on the train. With the Golden Boy out of the way, it was Draco's turn to be in the spotlight.
As Dumbledore began speaking, Draco turned his attention to the front of the room. A row of first-years stood at the front, some fidgeting, others looking around the room in awe. A short, blond-haired boy held a funny-looking camera in his hands, taking photographs every few seconds.
He certainly wasn't a pure-blood from the lack of decorum he was showing. Probably a Mudblood, honestly. They were getting bolder by the year. As if the know-it-all wasn't annoying enough.
Still, Draco watched as the boy—Colin Creevey—sat down on the stool, and the hat called out, "GRYFFINDOR!" after a few moments of deliberation.
"What a surprise," Draco murmured with a roll of his eyes. "As if there was any other house he could be in."
The rest of the Sorting passed uneventfully, but as the Opening Feast continued, there was something about that Creevey Mudblood that kept drawing Draco's eyes back to him.
The hospital wing was still and quiet. The full moon shone from outside the window, casting long shadows across the room.
Draco didn't know why he was there. Some force had compelled him to come, had dragged him from the dungeons and into the infirmary.
He looked around at the patients who were laying on the hospital beds, Petrified. He peeked closer at one of the beds. It was Colin Creevey, his arms outstretched as though he was still holding his omnipresent camera.
Something heavy constricted his chest, and Draco fought to breathe for a moment. Colin had—Creevey had always been smiling and constantly chattering and bouncing around, and to see him so still was unnatural. Creevey was a Mudblood and the bane of his existence, and Draco had certainly wished him harm multiple times, but never like this.
Ever since that very first day, Creevey had been following Potter like a house-elf scurrying around its master. It was absolutely nauseating that Potter got all the attention—he was pretty useless, for a Saviour.
It wasn't as though Draco was jealous. Why would he be? He certainly didn't want the little Mudblood dogging his every step.
But sometimes…sometimes Draco imagined what it would be like if Creevey—or anyone else besides Crabbe and Goyle, for that matter—looked up at him with those same adoring eyes.
Draco shook his head and turned on his heel, leaving behind the hospital wing and all the thoughts it brought.
Draco smirked as he cast the final charm on the set of Potter Stinks badges. Perhaps these would make Creevey finally pay attention to him, even if it was only to defend his precious Potter.
It was entirely unfair. No matter what Draco did, he couldn't get Creevey to even look at him. It wasn't about Creevey—not exactly—but more of the fact that Potter had managed to win Creevey over so much when he, Draco, couldn't get anyone outside of the Slytherins to pay a lick of attention to him. Everything was about golden boy Potter, and Draco was tired of it.
It had all gone to plan. Draco flashed his badge to Potter on their way to Potions, and predictably, Potter reacted. Professor Snape even took points off.
But where had it gone wrong? Creevey had entered the classroom and summoned Potter for whatever Triwizard affair that he had to attend. Creevey had stared down Snape but hadn't even glanced at Draco, not even after Draco showed off his badge.
Draco didn't understand. Why would Creevey prefer Potter over Draco? No one turned down a Malfoy. No one—until Creevey and Potter came along. Draco clenched his fist. Somehow, he would make things right again.
It had been four years of watching from afar as Colin looked up to Potter with those adoring eyes, and in Draco's opinion, that was four years too many. He was determined to change that this year—even if that meant unleashing his inner Gryffindor, he thought with a shudder.
Fifth year had gone well so far. Umbridge was targeting Potter and favouring Draco and his fellow Slytherins. The only problem was Creevey sneaking around with Potter all the time. It was as though the entirety of the Gryffindor House disappeared in the evenings to who-knew-where. As hard as Draco searched, he was never able to find Creevey anywhere—not in the library, not in the corridors, not in the classrooms. The only place he'd never searched was the Gryffindor common room, and well, Draco wasn't suicidal.
It was a rainy Saturday afternoon in December when Draco ran into Colin—literally. Draco had been walking down the seventh floor corridor when he went sprawling on the floor, books and parchment flying everywhere. He opened his mouth to snarl at the other person, before catching sight of the familiar face and biting back his harsh words. "Hello, Creevey," he said in his politest voice.
"Malfoy. Sorry for bumping into you." Colin was brusque, already turning away.
"Wait, Creevey!" The words slipped out of Draco's mouth before he could stop them.
Colin paused. "Yes?"
"I—" Draco's mind went blank. He opened then closed his mouth again. "Nevermind."
Colin snorted and walked away. Draco stared after his retreating back, angry at himself for bungling up his chance, angry at Potter for stealing Colin away, and angry at Colin for rejecting him.
The steady beat of footsteps shook Draco from his thoughts. He looked up. A line of people marched down the centre aisle, each carrying a body—a corpse—wrapped in a blanket. All around Draco, people sobbed into their handkerchiefs, but his eyes were dry; he didn't see much point in breaking into hysterics.
Draco's eyes caught on a boy carrying a body wrapped with a bright red cloth. He looked so much like Colin that Draco thought for a moment that Colin had come back to life. But it was not to be.
It was Dennis, Colin's younger brother. Large bags were visible under his eyes, and he stumbled a few times as he proceeded to the dais. Draco wanted to demand to take Dennis' place. How dare he trip while carrying Colin's body?
Draco's eyes were fixed upon Colin's body the entire time. There were so many other deaths, but Colin was the only one who mattered.
The room was dark, only flickering torches on the walls illuminating it. At the centre of it, on a bone-white throne, sat the Dark Lord. Draco glanced up and shuddered at the menacing red eyes that seemed to pierce into his soul.
"Come closer, young Malfoy." The voice had a hint of a lisp and echoed through the silent room.
Draco glanced over at his mother, who gave a minuscule nod. He took a deep breath and walked confidently towards the foot of the throne. He bowed. "My Lord."
Out of the corner of his eye, Draco saw the Dark Lord make a quick gesture. His mother's footsteps receded, and then the door shut with a bang, causing Draco to nearly jump out of his skin.
"Rise, young Malfoy, and look at me."
Draco stood and slowly met the Dark Lord's eyes.
"Come closer."
Draco stepped forward, one shaking foot after another.
A long-fingered hand reached out and grasped Draco's chin, forcing him to step even closer. All of the sudden, a piercing force entered his mind, and Draco screamed. The pain was excruciating, like being stabbed in the head, but then it was all over. Draco clutched his forehead, gasping for breath.
"How…delightfully puerile." The hand disappeared.
Draco's heart pounded, and his breathing seemed too loud, but he remained silent.
Finally, the Dark Lord spoke. "I was a young man, once. I remember what it was like to crave another young man's attention. And I can tell you this: if you do something extraordinary, then he will not be able to look away." The Dark Lord met Draco's wide eyes. "I can give you such a task. When you succeed, he will see you, and I'll reward you beyond your wildest dreams. Do you want this task?"
Draco swallowed. He had never imagined the Dark Lord to behave so…kindly. He nodded.
The ends of the Dark Lord's lips twitched upwards. "Give me your arm."
Draco held out his arm, and the Dark Lord pressed the tip of his wand to it. It felt like his flesh burst into flame. Draco screamed. Just before he lost consciousness, the Dark Lord whispered into his ear, "Your task is to kill Albus Dumbledore. And if you fail, it will be on Creevey's head."
This was Draco's moment. For the entirety of sixth year, he had been planning for this moment. Dumbledore unarmed, defenceless, and ready to be killed.
But as he raised his wand, he couldn't do it. He thought of Colin, with lifeless eyes, blaming Draco for his death. He thought of the Dark Lord's slimy touch. He thought of Colin. The Dark Lord had said that when Colin was devastated, Draco could step in and gain his trust. He thought of Colin, looking up at him with the same adoring eyes he looked at Potter with.
Still, Draco couldn't raise his wand and cast that Merlin-damned spell. Not when Dumbledore was looking at him and smiling so serenely.
Then, it was all over in a blink of an eye. Snape had fired off the deadly spell that Draco couldn't, and then they were fleeing, far from Hogwarts. Once back in the Dark Lord's domain, the Death Eaters celebrated, the Dark Lord praising Snape effusively, and Draco was forgotten, cast to the side.
All through it all, Draco could only think of Colin—Colin, who once more was likely following Potter around, looking up at him with adoring eyes.
A short, tufty-haired man waddled up to the front and began to speak. His words were bland, vaguely positive sentiments about how the Fallen Fifty had died, fighting the tyranny of Lord Voldemort. There was nothing personal, nothing befitting the unique person that each of them were—the unique person that Colin was. The official probably hadn't even heard of Colin's name before reading it in the list of the dead featured on the Daily Prophet.
Draco wanted to storm up the centre aisle and push the official aside, stealing the pulpit for himself. Instead, he clenched his fists, his nails carving grooves into his palms.
Draco knew Colin—knew his heart and soul. Everything Draco had done, ever since the moment he'd laid eyes on him, had been in Colin's name, in the name of trying to capture Colin's attention and besotted stare. But none of that mattered.
The only thing that mattered was that Draco was a Death Eater, and that would always make him unworthy—unworthy of society and unworthy of Colin's memory.
Draco had come home to Malfoy Manor for Easter break, hoping that it would be less gloomy than Hogwarts. It seemed that no one at Hogwarts had smiled for the past year (ever since the Dark Lord took over, a voice in his head whispered). But even Malfoy Manor was no different. Everyone was stoic, and the idea of laughter seemed like an anathema.
But then, those dreadful five words: "They say they've got Potter."
Throughout the year, Draco had been slowly coming to terms with the fact that Colin probably wouldn't survive in this new world that the Dark Lord had created. That if Draco wanted Colin to live, then the Dark Lord would have to die. And that the only one who could kill the Dark Lord was Potter.
The same Potter whom Draco had been jealous of. The same Potter whom Colin looked up to with those adoring puppy eyes.
And then Potter was there. Face swollen up, glasses gone, and barely recognizable. But it was Potter, in the flesh.
Draco took a deep breath. It's for Colin.
His father tapped his foot impatiently. "Well, Draco? Is it Harry Potter?"
"I can't be sure." His voice reflected his mental state—unsteady, adrift in an ocean with no one to support him.
The next few days felt like a blur. Potter and his friends escaped, and the only sounds that rang through the house were screams of tortured Crucios.
It's all for Colin, Draco reminded himself. All for Colin.
If Draco closed his eyes, he could still see the fire raging in the Room of Requirement. But he was alive, rescued by none other than Saint Potter.
Spells flashed everywhere, in every direction. Pained screams erupted periodically. A faint smell of smoke drifted through the air. It was chaos personified.
Out of the corner of Draco's eye, he saw a familiar head of blond hair. Colin Creevey.
Colin wasn't holding his camera this time, instead wielding his wand, firing spells at a rapid pace as his brows furrowed with concentration. Draco ducked into an alcove and watched him, Colin's feet dancing as he gracefully dodged the Death Eater's curses.
But then, a jet of acid green, and Colin a moment too late. A silent scream escaped from his lips—a warning perhaps, or a shout of denial. Colin fell to the ground and stopped moving.
Draco ran. He dodged spellfire and cast shields, barely conscious of where he was going. All he knew was his feet pumping even as his muscles cramped. He ran until his mum caught up with him. Then, they ran together.
But even running away couldn't change the stark truth: Colin Creevey was dead.
A wave of the official's wand, and a row of tombs materialised. The crowd began pushing toward the front, wanting to say their final goodbyes.
Draco didn't need to. He knew he wouldn't be welcome, anyway. But that was okay.
Colin was dead. It seemed unfathomable that the one person whom Draco had based his entire life around was now gone. But perhaps he could do one final thing, in Colin's honour.
Draco walked up to Potter, who was speaking softly with some Weasleys. He stuck out his hand. "Potter."
Potter paused before taking his hand. "Malfoy."
Their eyes met. For the first time in a long time, no pit of jealousy bubbled up from Draco's chest, and he felt at peace.
