The past clings to Colin like the ashes of a burnt-out world, fine and gritty, impossible to scrub clean no matter how hard he tries. He can feel it every time he moves, a tightness beneath his skin, pulling at the places where the healers have stitched him back together, places that weren't meant to be repaired by magic alone. Colin Creevey, who once flitted around Hogwarts like an eager bird, now walks with the heavy steps of a man who has survived more than he can recount. There is a silence inside him, a hollow space where his brother used to laugh, where the crackle of excitement for life used to hum. He has learned not to touch that space, not to stir the echoes that might wake the grief crouched in its depths.

The wizarding world is different now, or perhaps it's just Colin who is different. The sky seems flatter, the colors duller, as though the world itself is still recovering from its own wounds. It has been months since the final battle, months since he watched friends and strangers alike fall in the shadow of the castle. He can still hear the whispers of their names when he closes his eyes. Sometimes they speak to him as though he's still in that night, still crouching behind a crumbling wall, clutching his camera like a lifeline, as though the lens could save him when nothing else could.

His camera is gone now. Colin had dropped it somewhere in the chaos, his hands too slick with blood to keep hold of it, too desperate to reach for something real. The thought of it lost forever twists in his chest, another piece of his past buried under the rubble of war. But Colin is not the boy who cried over spilled potion ingredients anymore. He does not shed tears for lost trinkets or shattered dreams. Instead, he walks forward, one scarred step at a time, into the uncertain light of a world that doesn't quite know how to welcome him back.

There is a new hardness to his frame now, a subtle shift in the way his muscles tense under his skin. His body has learned the language of battle, the sharp syllables of pain, the quiet hum of survival. His face, still young but no longer boyish, carries the shadow of those nights spent on edge, waiting for the crack of a curse that never came. He is stronger now, but not invincible. The scars etched across his chest and arms are reminders of that—thin white lines that weave a map of his near-deaths.

Colin has kept to himself since the war ended, drifting like a ghost through Diagon Alley, barely seen and never heard. The few who do recognize him cast quick glances, uncertain whether to speak or to nod in grim acknowledgement. He prefers it this way. The noise of crowds feels too sharp, too loud, as if the world has moved on too quickly while he's still trying to remember how to breathe in this new reality.

But today is different.

Today, Colin is here, standing outside the doors of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, the vibrant storefront more out of place than ever in the gray London streets. He hesitates, his hand hovering over the door handle. He hadn't planned on coming, but somehow his feet had brought him here, to this place where the walls are painted in the colors of laughter, of life before everything turned to ash. His chest tightens. Fred Weasley. The name alone is enough to draw a half-formed smile, though it feels like a strange thing to do, as if his face hasn't been stretched in that direction in far too long.

Fred Weasley has always been the joker, the one who laughed even as the world threatened to tear itself apart. Colin remembers the way Fred and George had seemed invincible, a pair of bright, burning stars against the backdrop of so much darkness. But Fred had fallen, just like the rest of them. At least, that's what everyone thought.

The war had taken many, and Fred had come close. Too close. His survival was as much a miracle as it was a wound that hadn't fully healed. Colin wasn't sure what he expected to find here, but he knew one thing for certain—Fred Weasley was still alive, and that in itself was worth something.

Inside, the shop is a riot of color, exploding with life in a way that feels almost too much, too vivid after the dullness of the world outside. Shelves are crammed with jokes, fireworks, potions that bubble in strange hues, and items Colin doesn't even try to understand. The air smells faintly of sugar and something electric, like a storm brewing just out of reach. It's the kind of place that might have made Colin laugh once, the kind of place that still pulls at some distant corner of his memory, reminding him that there was a time when joy wasn't such a foreign concept.

"Oi, Colin!"

The voice is unmistakable. It cuts through the haze of colors and smells like a shot of firewhiskey. Colin turns, and there, standing behind the counter with a grin that's just a little too wide, a little too forced, is Fred Weasley. His hair, a vivid shock of red, gleams in the soft light of the shop. He looks the same in so many ways—broad shoulders, tall, that cocky tilt of his head—but there's something in the way he moves now, a slight stiffness, a wince that flickers across his face when he shifts too quickly.

Fred's eyes meet Colin's, and for a moment, neither of them speaks. There's too much unsaid between them, too much weight to the silence that stretches out like a thread pulled taut.

"I'll be damned," Fred says, his voice rougher than Colin remembers. "Look who's come crawling out of the grave."

Colin snorts, the sound half-laugh, half-sigh. It's been months since anyone has spoken to him like this, with that casual irreverence that somehow feels more honest than all the well-meaning condolences he's been offered. He steps forward, feeling the familiar twinge of pain in his side where a curse had nearly finished him. Fred's eyes flicker down to the faint outline of the scar, but he doesn't comment. Of course, he doesn't. Fred knows better than anyone what it means to carry the weight of wounds that don't fully heal.

"Still peddling jokes, I see," Colin says, his voice rougher than he expected, the words scraping out like gravel.

Fred's grin falters for just a second, something like pain flashing behind his eyes, but it's gone before Colin can be sure.

"Gotta keep the dream alive, don't we?" Fred says, spreading his arms wide as if to encompass the entire shop, the entire world he's built. "Someone has to make people laugh again, even if...even if it hurts like hell sometimes."

Fred's words hang in the air, a truth spoken too quickly, like a joke that's missed its mark. Colin notices the way Fred's lips twitch at the edges, like they're not quite sure whether to hold the grin or let it fall. He looks away for a moment, casting his eyes around the shop, feeling the weight of what isn't being said. The walls, the shelves, the very air feels thick with things unsaid, memories buried under layers of bravado and bright colors.

"Yeah, I guess you would know," Colin replies quietly, his voice barely audible over the bubbling cauldrons and the faint crackle of enchanted fireworks overhead.

Fred leans forward on the counter, his hands gripping the edge a little too tightly, knuckles white. "You're not wrong there, mate." He exhales sharply, and for a moment, Colin sees the cracks in Fred's armor. The endless stream of jokes, the quick wit—it's all there, but it's holding something back, something raw. Fred had always been larger than life, a force of nature. But now… now there's something fragile about him, a brittleness that wasn't there before.

Colin shifts awkwardly, unsure of what to say. He's never been good at words, not the kind that matter. He used to think his camera could do all the talking for him, that it could capture the things he couldn't express, the things he wasn't brave enough to say out loud. But there's no camera now. Just him and Fred, two broken survivors pretending they've put themselves back together.

"You—" Fred starts, then stops, his brow furrowing as though he's reconsidering what he was about to say. "You came here for something, right? Or were you just hoping for some free merchandise? I've got this new trick, see—it'll make your hair stand on end for a week. Thought it might be your kind of thing, since you've got that whole 'windswept, tortured soul' look going on."

Colin's lips quirk into the smallest of smiles, though it feels strange on his face, as if the muscles haven't been used in years. "No, I wasn't after anything in particular. Just… just passing through." He glances at Fred's hands, still clenched on the counter. "I wasn't sure if you'd be here. Thought maybe…"

Fred's laughter cuts him off, sharp and sudden, but it dies quickly, leaving behind a kind of hollow sound. "Thought I'd be dead, didn't you?"

Colin flinches, but he doesn't deny it. It's not something they talk about, the almost-deaths, the moments where the line between life and death blurred so much it was impossible to tell which side they'd land on. The world had mourned Fred Weasley for days before anyone knew he'd survived, pulled back from the brink by a combination of stubbornness, luck, and his brother's relentless determination. Colin had heard the rumors, whispered among survivors, but he hadn't let himself believe it until now.

"I didn't know what to think," Colin admits, his voice raw. "I thought—well, everyone thought…"

Fred's grin slips, just for a second, before it snaps back into place like a mask. "Yeah, well, we're not so easy to get rid of, us Weasleys. Got too much to live for, I guess." He forces a laugh, but it rings false, a sound that bounces off the walls and falls flat.

Colin doesn't say anything. He just watches, waiting for the mask to fall again, waiting for Fred to let the joke drop. The silence between them stretches, thick and heavy, filled with the weight of everything they've lost.

After what feels like forever, Fred finally moves, pushing himself back from the counter with a sigh. "Come on, then," he says, jerking his head toward the back of the shop. "Let's get out of here for a bit. I could use a break from all this." He gestures vaguely at the chaos of the shop—the fireworks, the trick wands, the shelves of joke items that seem almost too bright, too cheerful in the dim light.

Colin nods, following Fred through a narrow doorway that leads to the back room. The air here is different, quieter, as though the laughter and chaos of the shop don't quite reach this far. The walls are lined with crates and boxes, half-open packages spilling colorful powders and tiny gadgets onto the floor. It smells faintly of burnt parchment and something sweet—probably leftover from one of the experiments gone wrong.

Fred collapses into an old, beat-up armchair in the corner, the kind that looks like it's seen better days. He stretches out his legs, wincing slightly as he does, and Colin notices the way his hand goes instinctively to his side, pressing gently against his ribs. Fred's wounds, like Colin's, haven't fully healed. Not the visible ones, and certainly not the ones that run deeper.

"Sit," Fred says, waving a hand toward a rickety wooden chair across from him. "You look like you're about to fall over."

Colin hesitates for a moment, then lowers himself into the chair, feeling the wood creak under his weight. For a long time, neither of them speaks. The silence between them isn't uncomfortable, exactly, but it's heavy, like there are things that should be said but neither of them knows how to start.

"You know," Fred says after a while, his voice softer now, "I wasn't sure I'd see you again. Not after everything."

Colin's chest tightens, and he looks away, his fingers tracing the outline of a scar that runs along his forearm. "I didn't think I'd survive."

"Yeah." Fred's voice is quiet, almost resigned. "None of us did."

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Colin swallows hard, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. He thinks about his small flat—barely big enough to contain the echoes of his own thoughts, let alone someone else's. But he knows Fred's right. The shop would be too chaotic, too full of distractions and noise. If they're going to talk about the war, about everything they've buried, it needs to be somewhere quieter. Somewhere they can be honest.

"Alright," Colin says finally, his voice quieter than he expected. "My place works."

Fred's smile widens, and for a moment, it's almost like the old Fred, the one who could charm anyone with just a flash of teeth. "Great. How about tomorrow, then? I'll bring the Firewhiskey—make it a proper interrogation."

Colin chuckles, though it feels strained. "Sure. Tomorrow." He glances away, trying to shake off the uneasy feeling creeping up his spine. He's not sure why he feels this way, why the thought of Fred in his space feels like crossing some invisible line. But he pushes the thought aside, knowing that this is what he came here for. To hear Fred's story. To tell it.