Author's Notes: This is a fic written for the Potter Complex. I used the prompt/song Waiting for Superman by Daughtry and I played with mostly the lyrics of the song.
The hill lies desolate. It was abandoned years ago, when the owners of the house that lies upon it moved out of town. The story goes they left for better job opportunities elsewhere — they have never been seen again, by none of the remaining inhabitants of the small valley town, despite their claims of coming back to visit friends and family every so often.
That was a long time ago. The house on the hill has since been given back to nature and is now overgrown with moss, grass, weeds and the prettiest of flowers. The town has since grown empty. That makes it the perfect place to hide — the perfect place for a graveyard. Funerals happen there every day now, held by people in long robes who wave with sticks and seem to disappear into nothingness at the end of the service. Most of the coffins are rather small but today's coffin is the smallest of all. It's brought in in the same manner as the larger ones had been, floating above people with sticks, but there's more to it. Amongst the people with sticks is a young boy, and next to him is a man who has no stick but who looks as if he's about to break. He shuffles along. The procession ends at the top of the hill.
The young boy whispers something to the man, calls him Dad and says, "I'll wait for granny, down below."
And so he does. There he is, standing on the side of the road. He is barely taller than the fence that surrounds him, the fence that marks the hill as private property long after it ceased to be private property. He stares intently at the road ahead, trying his best to peer around the corner, hoping to catch a glimpse, to see a car. Any car. There aren't many that come this way. Not any more. Not unless the destination is the funeral hill.
A taxi comes around the corner. The young boy sees it and prays it holds his granny. The one he is waiting for. The one he has been waiting for for upwards of twenty minutes now. He's getting quite nervous, actually, and fumbles around with the buttons of his shirt in the hopes it'll calm him down like it usually does, but it doesn't. Not this time. Not now. Nothing can calm him down and nothing can prepare him for what is to come. The small coffin just up the hill...
The taxi drives by, it comes to a stop and he can see the door open. He watches the driver pull away and he sees his granny standing there, her arms outstretched. She's waiting for him to run up to her the way he'd so often done when he was little. When they were little. He forces himself to move forwards one step at a time until — finally — he reaches her and feels her arms close around him. He rests his head upon her shoulder. He's grown. She's shrunk. The hug is awkward and lasts far too long yet neither of them pull away. In that moment, that short moment, caught between arms, everything has gone back to normal. It's as if none of this happened, but it did, and it doesn't make sense.
He pulls away and wipes his eyes with his sleeve. Lately, the tears won't stop coming. He's falling apart, and he wishes he could say, 'it's logical, my brother died, of course I feel this way', but he can't, because if he were to say those words... it would become the truth. And it can't be the truth. Because it doesn't make sense. None of it makes any sense. It makes no sense, how he can't sleep at night. It makes no sense, how he climbs out of bed every time just to stand by the window and watch the skies in search of stars, to watch the streets in search of cars, to wish vehemently that this all was some kind of nightmare, to wish for him to come back and lift him up into his arms, to come back and save him, to... no, it makes no sense.
Granny brushes his sandly locks out of his eyes and offers her hand for him to take, and he does. They walk together, along the narrow path that leads up the hill. On the hill, there are trees, and above it, the sky. It is daytime now, so there are no stars visible — only clouds, yet he gazes at them as if it is nighttime and he's back in his room, unable to sleep. He stares at the clouds and remembers how they used to look at them together, how they used to spend hours seeking out funny little shapes. Now all he can see in the clouds is his brother. They clouds spell out his name, appear as his face, they taunt him with his passing as if they try to tell him that it's all his fault.
And it is.
It is his fault; he should've been there, he should've been there to protect him, but he wasn't there and he didn't know. Because life ist't like the movies, where the hero gives a big goodbye and comes back unscathed. Life isn't like the Superman comics they used to devour. They are no aliens from Krypton armed with superstrength and X-ray vision. They are but tiny human beings — but oh, how invincible they felt, when they were young and unafraid! Climbing the top bunk in their room and tying those blankets around their necks like capes. They'd fly from the top bunk down to the floor by jumping and it never ended in any trouble. They could float, sometimes. Time seemed to slow down mid-jump and they could reach the walls, reach the ceiling, reach the world before landing safely. Oh, how amazing and invincible they'd felt back then... like nothing could stop them... but there was nothing invincible about it then and there is nothing invincible about it now. What's the point of being magic if you end up six feet down like the rest? What's the point of being magic if that's what kills you in the end?
Had they gone to a normal Secondary, none of this would've happened. He's so certain of this fact that he wishes he could go back in time and stop that witch from coming to their house, to stop her from telling them all about magic and Hogwarts. Because Hogwarts killed his brother. Hogwarts is the reason he's dead, he's gone, he's never coming back just because Hogwarts wanted him dead. Hogwarts wanted nothing more than kill him... and still, Colin wanted nothing more than save it. That's the most despicable thing of it all — Colin had always been one to constantly save the day, even back in primary school when the bigger boys picked on Dennis. He was so small. He'd been the perfect target, but not with Colin around. He'd sweep in and lift him up into his arms and keep him safe. And that's what he did, didn't he? At Hogwarts? He did exactly what he did back in primary school. It was in his nature to protect. It shouldn't have come as a surprise that he'd gone back to fight. And yet... he'd do anything to feel his arms wrapped around him again, he'd do anything to be safe again, to feel loved and understood, to be rescued from the bad guys.
A squeeze in his hand and he looks sideways to his granny. They've reached the top, the graveyard, the site where poor Colin is to be buried. He sees his dad standing by the coffin, trying his best to hold himself together, but there's no way he can. Because none of this makes sense. The small boy in the tiny coffin, the people gathered, him and his granny slowly closing in. Nothing's making sense, it's like a bad dream he just can't wake up from.
Dad breaks down. A sob escapes his lips and Dennis lets go of his granny at once, hurrying over. Now he's next to the coffin, he can see him clearly — it is as if he entered the Great Hall all over again. That first time he saw his brother's lifeless body, it must've been four or five days after the Battle. He'd heard it on the radio — on the bleeding radio! — the casualties of the final Battle: Colin Creevey. He had known what he would see when he set foot in that Hall and yet he wanted it to be a lie, oh, how he needed it to be a lie. He had wished for it to be a lie the entire way to Hogwarts, he had wished for it to be a lie even when he saw him there, lying on the floor, his arm sticking out from the blanket they covered him with. It was cold, it was stiff, it was slightly discoloured. It is still discoloured now, ten days later, and his chest is still as unmoving as it was then. It's haunting. It's not making sense. He cannot breathe.
He gasps for air and looks away, his eyes catching onto another thing he wishes he could unsee. The camera. That bleeding camera of his. He remembers when Dad first gave him that very camera, for him to take to school to show him all about how awesome learning magic must be... and Colin's face had lit up in excitement, he'd been trembling, so happy had he been to see the camera and film rolls... he'd hugged him tightly and promised to send him so many pictures he could decorate the walls of the house with it. And he did, and the walls of the house still feature those pictures even now... pictures of four and a half years of Hogwarts...
He smiles to himself. Oh, how he smiles. Salty tears start streaming down his smile. "Why did you have to be so brave? Why did you have to? How am I supposed to do this without you?" he mumbles, knowing full well it makes no sense to talk to a corpse. And yet, he talks to him. He's an angel, a literal one this time. Granny did always say he was an angel of a boy. He chokes. "I'm sorry..."
His dad squeezes his shoulder and he leans back against his chest. "We should sit down, shouldn't we?"
He nods. They should, but he doesn't want to. He looks back at the people who are already sitting there, friends from Hogwarts and his life back at home. Family. People of whom some know what happened. Some of those were there when it happened. Others do not know what happened and were lied to. Most were lied to, because Heaven forbid his family know what happened, Heaven forbid they know he died a warrior, not in a car crash (what a lousy excuse that is, what a despicable claim to make of one who fought so bravely for a world that doesn't want him). Telling family how he really died would apparently bring about the end of the world, or something.
At least Dad knows.
Together they move towards the seats. They sit down. Dennis closes his eyes, wishing the world would disappear. He doesn't want to listen to lies about how the driver that hit him feels remorse, because he wasn't hit and the one that killed his brother is quite likely incapable of feeling such things. Murdered, not an accident. That is what everyone should know. He was brave. He was strong. This service didn't do him justice. He wants to jump up and interrupt him, tell him he's wrong. He wants Colin to jump up and demand better. He is livid and could scream and shout and call the man names, and call Colin names for leaving without saying goodbye, and bring down the place, thrash the chairs, wreck the grass, the trees, even the coffin. But none of that would bring him back, so none of that is what he does. He just remains seated and listens politely, and secretly also doesn't want the service to end. It would mean going back to that room with the bunk bed that'll be half-empty forever. The bunk bed they used to build pillow forts to read late at night, the bunk bed they kept their comic book collection under. It's still there, even after the eternity it felt like since he'd last taken one of the comics for a read. So many days on the run, so many days out of the house, so many days... and it's all the same as he left it. He doesn't want to go back to the room that reminds him constantly of Colin's death...
But he will go back there after the service ends. Not immediately, no, first all of the Muggles need to be seen out, then the burial will take place and Colin will be given his own headstone in his final resting place. But when all that is over and done with, Dennis will go back to the place he is supposed to call his home, the house he grew up in and knows so well. And he does call it his home, even if it doesn't feel like it, and he does go back to the bedroom that is now his, and no longer theirs, and he will be waiting in that bedroom, spending a hundred days and a hundred nights there, still talking to his angel, still whispering tales of a forgotten past; he's alone to remember what happened now, and his memory falters. He still won't be able to sleep, not for a long time — he'll continue counting the stars and making wishes on passing cars, he'll be searching for answers, waiting for a sign.
He's falling apart; waiting for a superman who'll never come back.