Disclaimer: I own Harry Potter. Oh, no, wait. That was only a dream.

Written for Miss Caroline Potter's "24-hour" challenge at HPFC with the prompts Colin Creevey and flash.

Still Life

It was the pictures, more than anything else, which brought him back to the grounds to fight.

Colin would not admit it another wizard but, after the novelty of moving photographs wore off, he honestly preferred the stillness of Muggle-style photography. In a transient world, where his wand, his rights, and even his life could be taken from him any moment, there was something comforting about a picture whose subjects never moved. With the flare of a flashbulb, a perfect moment could be caught forever.

As he bobbed and weaved his way toward the castle, ducking curses, he could feel the weight of the small stack of photographs he carried in his breast pocket. Their edges, curled from his constant handling, rubbed over his heart. He could describe them all with perfect recall, their captions a litany that proved part of this castle, this magical life, once belonged to him.

The Great Hall at mealtime, tables heavy with food, hearts warm with companionship.

He stumbled over a crumpled body, slipping on grass made slick with blood, too afraid to look down and see who it was.

McGonagall at the heads' table, her dark head inclined toward Dumbledore as he murmured something low, a secretive smile on her face.

He dodged left in time to barely avoid the Killing Curse. It was so close he could feel the peculiar heat of it—the magic of it—pass by his head.

A common room in red and gold, a ginger cat frozen forever as he leaps for a Fanged Frisbee, onlookers laughing.

He fired off jinxes of his own, first taught to him in forbidden lessons in a secret room by a boy only a year older than him.

His brother, grinning, a handful of half-transfigured beetles in his palm, still round and flat as the buttons they used to be.

The air was thick with screams and the smell of blood. If he could just get to the castle, he thought, but there were so many Death Eaters in the way. As soon as one fell, another appeared to take his place.

Harry, just a small, exhilarated boy in red and gold robes, caught in mid-flight on a broom, his fingers straining for the Snitch.

Colin was there for Harry, for Dennis and their father, and Muggles and Muggle-born, but he realized what he was really fighting for was more moments like the ones carried close to his heart. Moments when a flash of light could freeze peace and happiness forever on film.

The battleground was pocked with scorch marks and small holes. When he stepped into a divot and stumbled again, he flung his arms outward to keep his balance, and he saw, in that defenseless moment, how the nearest Death Eater turned toward him. With the eerie clarity of a movie watched frame by frame, he saw the wand pointed at him. He thought of a hundred things in a heartbeat, from his parents to the unmoving pictures in his pocket to Protego!, and knew his own wand was pointed in the wrong direction.

He saw the Death Eater's mouth move, foul words twisting it into a snarl.

A flash of green light, and there was nothing left but stillness.