A/N: This is written for Round 5 of the QLFC, I'm a Beater in the Montrose Magpies. As always thank you to my fantastic team for their support, betaing & generally being amazing people. Prompts used are listed at the bottom.

Forgiveness

The serene grounds of Hogwarts as the sun was rising was the perfect time and place for Dennis and Colin Creevey to roam and snap pictures that were worthy of their own place in Hogwarts: A History. The ancient architecture against the plentiful greenery with a backdrop of a strong Scottish sunrise couldn't fail to inspire even the most amateur of photographers, and no matter which angle they photographed, they found new beauty in it.

If anyone had told Dennis that this would be the place that he saw his brother for the final time, he would have laughed in their face. They had so much more of the world to see and capture.

As the carriages, pulled by Thestrals, a sight that pained him to look at, stopped before the castle, Dennis stared up in wonder—much like he had when he was a first year—and also, with a little bit of fear. That wasn't something he had expected. In fact, he had been so confident in his ability to keep himself composed upon seeing the historic school that he'd promised his parents that he'd be strong for them—and for Colin. He'd promised, for crying out loud; that wasn't something he did lightly.

He moved a shaking hand to push open the door of the carriage, relieved that he was able to muster up the strength to be able to do it. As he stepped out, one foot sunk into the damp autumn soil, followed by the other.

Suddenly, it was all too much for him. The sharp smell of the grass after rainfall pushed forth the long-suppressed memories of mornings and nights spent tiptoeing through the dewdrop-laden grass with his big brother. Every single time, they would return to their common room and pull off shoes and socks that had been soaked through because Colin hadn't yet mastered Impervius—the day he had finally done so was another magical moment. The distinctive cry of a Scottish Crossbill from somewhere close by reminded Dennis of Colin's equally distinctive laugh when he finally got the perfect picture of a butterfly emerging from its cocoon. Then, there was the salt that coated his tongue, and he realised that he was crying, and the sensation transported him to when he had last entered the Great Hall to find his brother's body covered by the white sheet that was wrinkled just his linen bedsheets at home. The moment was almost worthy of a photograph, though, of course, in the moment, Dennis hadn't thought to reach for his camera. The composition was something else, though, he realised, looking back. The pure white covering his role model's body was lifted to reveal garish red staining one side of his face and neck, and the blue veins that showed through his pale skin. It was almost a jumbled-up Union Jack, a mockery of the wizarding equivalent of patriotic values that had led to Colin's death.

There was nothing after that—much like the way he'd been stone-cold at Colin's funeral, despite not being the corpse—despite being the brother that lived. He felt guilty for that sometimes. How could he run out of tears for his brother?

When he finally felt something again, it was a warm hand pressing against his forehead, and he relaxed into the gentle feeling for a moment before straightening up. He had promised he would be strong, and he intended to keep his word. His sudden movement elicited a gentle tutting noise from Madam Pomfrey, and he bit the inside of his cheek to ground himself, to not think back to when his mother made the same noise whenever Colin wolfed down his breakfast on winter mornings just so he could photograph the untouched snow. Despite the sharp sting and coppery taste in his mouth, he was discharged after another twenty minutes passed without incident with the advice to stay on bedrest until the next day.

Dennis went to his lesson instead.

It was Transfiguration, and had been his favourite lesson, not in the least because of the obvious photography challenge it posed: to capture a still, Muggle-style image mid-transfiguration.

As a first year, his pictures had been an eclectic mix of blurred polaroids, but gradually, very gradually, they had progressed to decipherable images, and then to clear, breathtaking metamorphoses captured in something that wasn't quite their full glory.

Today, he entered the classroom with nothing in his hands—no quill, no parchment, and no camera—and took a seat somewhere in the middle of everyone. It was quiet, as it always was before Professor McGonagall entered the room and sent everyone to work. Like Transfiguration had been his favourite subject, Professor McGonagall had been his favourite teacher. She was an incredibly powerful witch, an expert in the area she taught, and the sheer magical prowess she possessed, coupled with her determination to keep the students of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry safe, was admirable.

Unfortunately, her determination wasn't enough. Colin had passed away, despite her dismissing him from the conflict.

When she entered (no dramatic Transfiguration this time, unlike his first lesson), everyone turned to stare at her. Dennis couldn't muster the effort it would take to turn his head, instead deciding to wait until she reached the front of the classroom to take in her still, undeniably powerful presence. She began to speak, but Dennis couldn't process the words, unable to move past the fact that someone so strong couldn't protect those she swore to. Instead, he simply stared.

He must have registered some of what she said as he remained seated as the rest of the class filed out and he heard McGonagall's footsteps moving towards him.

"Mr Creevey, do you know why I asked you to stay back?" she asked. It was then that Dennis lifted his head and young and old eyes met. McGonagall's were visibly aged — fine lines coupled with a few deeper ones surrounded the lids — yet they clearly held an expression of concern.

"No, Professor. I do not," said Dennis wearily. He sighed as his teacher took the seat beside him.

"You didn't complete any of the work I set today. In fact, you didn't seem to be listening in the slightest," scolded McGonagall. Then, her tone softened. "Dennis, I do understand that after… after Colin's passin—"

"Never use my name and his name in the same sentence. Ever."

McGonagall's eyebrows raised slightly, and if they weren't sat side by side, Dennis wouldn't have caught the slight flinch his words had caused. His own eyes widened at the way he had snapped.

"I have to go, Professor," he said, standing and leaving the room, and his teacher, behind.

It took him all of fifteen minutes to get to his dormitory. Five of those minutes were spent walking to the portrait hole, and the other ten outside of it—ten minutes of hesitation. Did he really want to relive another set of memories?

Of course, it was painful walking back through the common room. It looked exactly the same as he remembered, and it didn't help that students were milling around it as they always did, as if nothing had changed. However, as he lay in his four-poster bed and the tears spilled out of the corners of his eyes, Dennis laughed bitterly at the fleeting thought he'd had—a hope that he could have been weaned back into the process of daily school life. Despite the new Minister and the resulting Ministry shakeup, with one of the main priorities being the education sector, the reopening of Hogwarts felt far too rushed. Slowly re-introducing the students to school life wouldn't have fit into the packed rebuilding schedule.

The sombre atmosphere of his room caused his laugh to dry up almost the moment it left his lips, and he wondered if it would always be like this. He pulled the curtains surrounding his bed closed and rolled onto his side, thinking back on the brief moment he had stayed back with Professor McGonagall.

He'd realised, looking into her eyes, that it hurt. That Colin's death hurt him more than anything else in the world ever had—and looking into her eyes made something ugly come out of him, the way he'd snapped.

He couldn't look into those eyes, knowing the promise of safety they had once held; there was still determination now, but the guarantee of a promise had left. He only wished he hadn't trusted so much. Squeezing his eyes shut, he wondered how the outcome of the battle would have changed had his professor understood the weight of her promise. She seemed to have learned now, but it had been at the cost of his brother's life. He didn't know if he could forgive that.

The next day dawned, but Dennis didn't rise with it. He awoke, pushing aside his bedside curtains, and found the sun was high up in the sky; it looked like midday. When he got dressed and dashed down the stairs to the Great Hall, he found that he was right.

"Mr Creevey," said a voice from behind him the moment he filled his plate. He recognised it instantly: Professor McGonagall.

Already knowing it was going to be a telling off about his absence from his morning lessons, Dennis stood up to follow the witch.

"Bring your plate with you," was all McGonagall said as she turned to walk away. Dennis hurried to pick up his things and follow.

She led him to her office—only to be expected—and gestured for him to take a seat. He complied and waited for her to speak.

"Dennis, this behaviour cannot carry on. I understand it is difficult being back after… everything, and that it will take some time to adjust, but you are showing no sign of even caring about your education."

Dennis only nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

Professor McGonagall shook her head. "Dennis, I understand, honestly, I do, that what happened with Colin wa-"

"I told you before to not say our names in the same sentence!" shouted Dennis. Something inside him had snapped. "It's not enough that you understand, Professor—I'm sorry; it just isn't good enough. Colin, my brother, is gone! If any of us had known that your promise to keep us all safe was so empty, then perhaps someone could have kept an eye on him—kept him safe—"

"In war, there is no safety!"

Dennis sat back. The outburst from the Transfiguration professor hadn't been something he had expected, and he was shocked to find tears rolling down her cheeks. The shaking hand wiping them away only emphasised the guilt he felt.

It was after a tense moment of silence that the all-too-familiar sensation of his own tears sliding down his cheeks arrived.

"Oh, Dennis, I'm sorry," said Professor McGonagall, standing up to move round to his side of her desk and hand him a tissue.

"Please don't be, Professor. These aren't because of you."

"Those who passed away in the Battle will always be remembered, but above all—above all of the blood, sweat, tears, broken promises, and half-truths—they will always be loved. Those memories aren't empty, Dennis; they are there to be cherished, and I know…" There was another pause. "I promise you that Colin would want you to remember him with a smile. He wouldn't want you to be so upset."

Dennis could only nod his head as the sobs wracked through his body, and he clutched onto McGonagall's robes in a strange, disconnected hug, hoping to absorb some of the strength she emanated so that he wouldn't cry anymore—for Colin.

A/N: Prompts used:

- 'serene'

- 'Never use my name and his name in the same sentence. Ever.'