Chapter Text

Prologue

Him — Somewhere — Time unknown

The assault was methodical. Relentless.

The first blow came without warning, landing just below his eye—swift strikes without mercy, delivered with the conviction of a thousand hungry beasts. Sharp enough to rip him from dead sleep.

A choked gasp snagged in his throat as a second blow landed. Then a third. A fourth. Paw after paw, each more insistent—hungrier—than the last.

"... please..."

The beast knew nothing of mercy.

"...stop..."

And it would not stop.

Even after the boy surrendered to consciousness, the vicious strikes refused to relent, until—

"...bugger off." The boy's voice, thick with sleep, now held more conviction, if not edge.

At last, the beast sat back, victorious and smug. Golden eyes blinked down at him like coins.

"Don't look at me like that, Felix—it can’t possibly be breakfast already."

The beast's head-tilt declared, Oh, but it is. 

"I’ll feed you now in a minute."

Unacceptable. A sharp yowl, delivered with a swat to the nose—the final punctuation to the argument.

"Right, right," he groaned, throwing off his blanket. "I’m up, I am."

Act 1

Chapter 1

Day 1: Colin Creevey's Flat — Diagon Alley, Early Morning

Colin stretched—immediate regret. His heel clipped the brass lamp perched too near the edge of the coffee table; it wobbled, thought better of it, then wobbled back into place with an indignant rattle.

Felix, a brassy smoke-grey Kneazle—maybe—of considerable size hopped on the coffee table, looking too pleased with himself by half. His golden eyes judged Colin even as his tail swished, one final flourish of irritation, nearly knocking a stack of fresh prints onto the floor. 

Colin yawned. "Mind the photos, you monster."

Lavender clung to Felix’s fur—Mrs. Plumpton’s soap—as did a glint of orange hair. Not Felix’s. Another Kneazle's perhaps? 

"You have a habit of bringing a new mystery with you every time you come back." 

No response. Other than a single, judgemental flick of a tail.

"Fine. As the saying goes—" Colin scrubbed a palm over his face, trying to erase the grit of a restless sleep, swung his legs over the side of the settee, "—keep your secrets." 

The rent notice, propped against an empty biscuit tin, continued to watch him, threatening him when he walked too close. Twenty-five galleons by tomorrow, it snapped. Mrs. Plumpton's legendary patience, apparently, had limits, and Colin was careening to the edge of it.

The flat had been a respectable Victorian townhouse once, before Diagon Alley tucked it under one arm and marched it to the outskirts of respectability. It was snug, jammed, charming if you were kind, and permanently teetering on the edge of disarray. Muggle practicalities shoulder-checked wizarding whimsy in every corner. A double exposure photo on brick and plaster.

Everything served a dual purpose. The kitchen island worked overtime as desk and battlefield. A collection of cereal boxes—the sugary kind his brother constantly nagged him about—stood sentinel on top of the tiny fridge. Stacks of developed prints shadowboxed with unpaid bills. His overstuffed camera bag sprawled among the debris beside a wedge of brie he’d bought on offer and would regret by noon. 

The living room pulled double-shift as his bedroom, with tangled blankets slumped across the settee, while yesterday’s clothes draped over a chair. The actual bedroom had long since been sacrificed and transformed into his darkroom. 

Even his walls told a double story of a life divided between two worlds.

Quidditch match photos commanded the wall above the small mantlepiece—frozen moments of deft saves and breathtaking dives, the raw energy of the sport played out on loop.

Posters of Muggle rock bands—Blur, Suede, Elastica—clashed wonderfully alongside the wizarding photos from Hogwarts. The posters held their paper ground beside the moving shots, Spellotape corners curling like old toes. It was a testament to his past and present, layered over one another in a way that felt… right.

Small, this flat was, and cramped, but all his.

And that's what mattered.

A delicate snore drifted from the corner where a singular bookshelf groaned under the weight of Hogwarts dog-eared and annotated textbooks, pressing shoulders with photography manuals on the bowing shelves. A lone portrait hung there in that corner—Professor Flitwick, slumped in a tiny armchair, a Charms book resting on his stomach.

He loved that portrait. Of all his Hogwarts professors, Flitwick had been the most patient, the kindest. After the war, when Colin had woken to a world that had already written him into the history books as a casualty, Flitwick had quietly commissioned his own portrait as a gift.

It was an act of kindness that even now gripped at Colin's throat. 

"Tempus," Colin murmured. A soft gold clockface flared midair and held. 5:47.

Balls! The Quidditch charity match was today—Puddlemere versus the Holyhead Harpies. The Quibbler had commissioned photos from him and if they were good enough, perhaps the freelance gig might turn into a regular position. Sure, it was The Quibbler but—Colin looked at the rent notice, leering at him—work is work and rent took any coin that didn't bite. 

Better than the alternative.

Besides, Puddlemere meant Oliver Wood.

The thought shuffled the air. On the mantle, a photo from last summer’s charity game: Harry diving for the Snitch, crowds a tangle of sound and banners. In the background: Oliver, frozen midair, jaw set, dark brows knit, every muscle primed. Wind raked sweat-dark hair as he turned his head and looked straight through the lens. A chill walked up Colin’s back with careful feet.

"Dwelling on the past again, are we?" Professor Flitwick said, blinking awake in his portrait, his voice papery and kind.

"No, Professor," Colin said. "Not today."

A lie. But today wasn't about the past. Today was about moving forward. 

Plenty of time until the eleven o’clock start, but plenty wasn’t forever. Prep the kit. Pick up a new lens filter from Pickersgill’s. Scout Puddlemere’s stadium for angles and the way the light sulks under clouds.

Colin crouched to collect his two cameras from their respective cases.

He pulled the first camera from its leather satchel: the Lumina Perpetua Model IV.

All brass and black leather and temperament. Runes murmured across its faceplate, and the lens jutted from its breathing bellows like a cannon's mouth. The Lumina demanded respect, required ceremony. It has no shutter button, only a sympathetic link to the photographer, capturing brilliant photos when it wasn't being obstinate.

But it was the second camera that made Colin's chest tighten with affection.

The Lomo LC-A.

The camera was little more than a black metal rectangle marked by countless adventures. Yet Colin held it like a treasured relic—small, scuffed, battle-scarred. Its leather grip had molded to fit Colin's hand from years of use, just like his hawthorn wand had done.

Deceptively simple and decidedly unmagical. No hum. No preen. No appetite for applause. It simply worked. But Colin had learned the Lomo's language, mastered its quirks—the way it loved shadows, how it pulled unexpected depth from ordinary moments. In return, the camera rewarded him in kind.

Felix hopped up on the bookshelf. His tail swished meaningfully toward another case, this one small, wooden, plain. 

"Yes, yes, I know." Colin flicked the latch and palmed the inhaler. Two sharp puffs. The tightness in his chest untied itself, the aperture of his lungs finally opening enough to let the light in. He hadn’t needed an inhaler before the war.

Some war wounds weren't optional souvenirs.

The distant rattle of dustbins being collected outside cut through memory. Morning was shrugging off the night's stillness. With everything packed and ready, and lingering memories banished, and thoughts of stunningly beautiful Quidditch athletes dutifully squashed—Cows and crows! what is it with Quidditch players?—Colin set food down for Felix. The Kneazles expression said it all: Finally. 

"Big day today, Professor," Colin said toward Flitwick’s portrait, carefully packing his camera bag. "Wish me luck."

A muffled response drifted from the frame: "Luck, Mr. Creevey... is just... preperrrr....ayyyy...shun-zzzzzz*..."

Portrait Flitwick was already asleep again. 

Colin locked his flat door, key turning with a solid click. The narrow hallway stretched before him, with its faded floral wallpaper and uneven floorboards that creaked in specific spots.

A muffled bass thump vibrated from Jasper's flat, directly across. Third night this week.

Colin repositioned his camera satchels, straightening the straps that criss-crossed over his chest, turned toward the stairs.

And nearly careened into Ms. Bumbershoot. 

Cows and crows—but she needed a cloch, she did! Something—anything—to give fair warning.

Her outrageous spectacles magnified her eyes to twice their size. She pointed at Jasper's door. "That dreadful racket all night. I've lived in this building since 1897—"

Colin blinked, doing mental maths. By the gods! How old was she?

"—and I will not tolerate such inconsideration from young wizards who should know better."

"I'll mention it to Jasper," Colin said.

"You're far too nice to that miscreant." She sniffed. "You should report him to Mrs. Plumpton. Those Soundproofing Charms of his aren't up to scratch."

Before Colin could respond, the door to 2A opened. Mr. Pipwick emerged, already dressed in pressed gray robes, mustache rigid with disapproval.

"Creevey." He nodded stiffly. "Your beast left claw marks on my doormat again."

"Felix hasn't left my flat all night," Colin said, though he wasn't entirely sure that was true.

"Nevertheless, the evidence is unmistakable." Pipwick's eyes narrowed. "Do you even have licensure for that monster?"

Licensure? For a kneazle? Colin didn't even know he needed a license for a kneazle. He said as much. 

"That mangy mongrel is no kneazle," Pipwick continued darkly. "A menace is what he is. Where did you even find the beast?"

To be fair, Colin hadn't found Felix. It was more the other way round. "I'm running late, I'm afraid—"

"They say the longer you own a kneazle—"

"Again, not my kneazle."

"—the more alike you look. Steals pieces of you, it does. The easier to ingratiate themself to you. Weren't your eyes blue before?"

"Brown eyes, mine."

"You sure?"

"Since nappies, they've been." Colin edged down a few more steps. "You're thinking of my brother Dennis."

"That short, round-shouldered block of a boy? Comes by on occasion?"

"He's twenty, he is."

"Model?"

"Not a model."

"Aspiring actor, then? Dramatic gestures?"

"He’s an Auror, Mr Pipwick."

"Ah! That explains the perpetually sour countenance. Always looks like someone's nicked his favorite biscuit."

"Fair play, that," Colin called back, grinning despite himself. "Accurate enough."

He made the ground floor with only one more conversational ambush: "Peculiar family, the Creeveys. Very peculiar indeed…" The front door swung open to crisp morning. Toast and stone, a ribbon of ozone and sugar from Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes farther up the Alley. The scent made school-years stir; mischief perfumed like carnival air. Diagon Alley was just waking up. 

Match today. Rent tomorrow. Nothing else mattered.