Smile

Colin would have been very excited, Freda just knew it.

After all, it is not very often that one is granted the privilege of having Harry bloody Potter attend their funeral. Freda Creevey would have been rather proud of herself for finally learning the famous savior of the wizarding world’s name if not for the fact that she was more concerned with the fact that he was basically the reason that her little brother had died – emphasis on basically, mind you.

“You’ve been staring at the back of that boy’s head for ten minutes now.”

Freda was surprised to discover that it was her mother who had just spoken. Agatha Creevey was a sensitive soul, and as such had not been able to muster up the strength to speak between the choked sobs and disgusting little sniffles.

“You know who it is, don’t you, Freda-bee?” Mrs. Creevey probed further, placing a bony little hand upon her daughter’s shoulder. It would have been more reassuring to Freda if not for the fact that the hand in question was shaking uncontrollably.

“That prat isn’t worth knowing, mum. He’s the bloke that wouldn’t give – wouldn’t give Colin the time of day all because he’s famous ickle Harry Potter~.” Freda retorted, her eyes narrowing in distaste at the back of the aforementioned male’s shaggy head.

Although it gave Freda some relief to finally say such an audacious thing aloud, it seemed to have the adverse effect upon her mother.

“Freda Crowley Creevey! You take that back right this instant! Harry Potter was a beloved friend of Colin’s and in turn he shall be a beloved friend of ours!” Mrs. Creevey spouted whilst her pale cheeks tinted a vibrant red. Whereas Freda had tried to be very hush-hush about her discontent the same could not be said for her Agatha. Instead of feeling like a puppy that had just been caught chewing up his owner’s slippers, Freda wasn’t even remotely bothered by her mother’s fury. No, instead she was much too preoccupied with the notion that someone could be so cruel as to use her middle name in public.

Freda’s great uncle, Crowley Creevey, had been a famous muggle reporter for the televised local news’ station. Her parents adored him so very much that they thought his legacy should live on with their oldest child, their misfortunate little daughter. Freda thought it hardly necessary to have to continue his legacy verbally however when Freda and her younger brothers had already taken after him quite immensely. Colin had received Great Uncle Crowley’s love of journalism – photo journalism at that, and Freda had obviously won the genetic lottery in the fact that she was gifted with his muggleness. Speaking of which, Freda couldn’t help but take note of how vastly the amount of wizarding folk present seemed to outnumber people like herself.

“Sorry, but I couldn’t help but to have overheard my name.” Harry Potter, almost as if by magic (although Freda didn’t really think that was the case) was suddenly standing before the church pew in which most of Colin’s immediate family had been squished together, sardine style.

“Right, my boy. You’re Harry Potter, are you not? I’m Sheldon Creevey; my son thought an awful lot of you!” Mr. Creevey suddenly sprang to action, rescuing his family from the awkward situation at hand. It was obvious to Harry Potter that the man that had suddenly sprung forth to hardly shake his hand was falsely cheerful; one could see it in depth of his brown eyes.

“Y-Yeah,” Harry began, pausing to clear his throat in a rather nervous manner. “I’m Harry. It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

As Harry smiled sympathetically at the Creevey family, Freda was silently thanking God that he had failed to recite the words it would have pained her to hear the most.

“I-Colin really was a great lad. I know that it won’t help in the slightest to convey to you how very sorry I am, but I can assure you that Colin will be missed by everyone that he knew.” Harry mumbled, stumbling over his words a bit.

Freda nearly went ballistic.

“Sorry, are you? Well tell that to my brother, yeah? You stupid—” Freda hissed, losing her temper entirely. If there had been a word in the world that was an insult that could be used on wizards that was the vicious equivalent to mudblood, Freda had no doubt she’d be shouting it at Harry Potter until her lungs gave out.

“Freda-bee, shhh, it’s okay, darling.” Her mother cooed, wrapping her shaking limbs around her daughter as if hoping to shield her from the reality she inevitably had to face. For what must have been the billionth time that day, Freda collapsed into a fit of dry sobs, barely comforted by her mother’s embrace.

“. . .Freda?” Harry called, ultimately puzzled as he tried to place a memory to her name and face. Upon seeing her for the very first time across the church he could tell at the very least that she must have been of some relation to Colin, and now that he knew she was his sister he was startled to realized that he had never seen her at school before.

“You didn’t go to Hogwarts, did you?” Harry ventured to say, quirking a brow at the distraught girl. It might have seemed a tad coldhearted that Harry continued on with his verbal questionnaire rather than backing off or trying to comfort the melancholy girl, but in reality Harry simply found himself ultimately awful at trying mend the grieving hearts of others. He would definitely know with as many funerals as he had had to attend recently over the deaths of noble wizards and witches that had been killed by Death Eaters at the battle of Hogwarts.

“I’m a muggle, you git.” Freda spat through hoarse cries.

“Really? Uh, sorry.” Harry replied, not at all fazed. After all, it was not the first time he ad been called a git, especially by a girl.

At the exact moment of Harry’s second apology, Freda’s shoulders ceased to shake. Her sobs quieted into an eerie silence, and slowly but surely her head rose so that she could look the petrified hero dead in the face.

“Don’t apologize, Potter. But there is something I’d like for you to do for me.” Freda insisted finally, her hands slowly slipping away from her mother in order to grasp firmly at something that was now incredibly dear to her.

“Smile, I’d like to remember the face of the boy who lived – twice whilst he let my brother die.”

SNAP!

It was far too late for Harry to finally take notice of the familiar little Polaroid camera that had been dangling casually from Freda’s scrawny neck.