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Title: Pictures
Author: [personal profile] eruditefics
Rating: PG
Warnings: canon character death
Summary: Ginny goes back for one last thing
Disclaimer: this is me, still not making money on fic.




Ginny Weasley brought her hand up to her swollen eye and winced when she saw blood on her fingertips. She had come off another run-in with The Carrows while she was trying to nick some food from the Hogwarts Kitchens to take back to The Room of Requirement, and the result was a nasty reducto curse aimed right at her head. Now she could feel her eye beginning to close up and the cuts on her face throb with pain. She closed her good eye and tried to imagine what life was like before the war. The picture became foggier every single day.

“The Death Eater Twins do ya dirty again, love?” Colin Creevy asked, coming up behind her and putting a hand on her shoulder. When Ginny turned around, he snapped a picture of her mangled face.

“Must you always do that?” She asked wearily.

“How else will people know?” Colin whispered, his large blue eyes shining. He was taller than Ginny now, by a lot, but he still held a youthful exuberance that made her feel inexplicably safe. Often, she would find herself crying into his robes when the days under the Carrows’ thumbs became too much to bear.

Collin lifted a hand to her cheek and let his thumb rest there. She bit her lip and leaned into his touch.  “Let’s get you healed up, huh?” He said with a tenderness that made a lump rise in Ginny’s throat.

“I’m glad you’re here, Colin,” Ginny said before she could stop herself.

 Six Months Later

Ginny Weasley walked over the charred remains of the Room of Requirement, despairing in the damage done to the priceless artifacts as well as the harmless nicknacks. The room had been her home for so long, her safe harbor, that to see it destroyed cut at what was left of her heart in the aftermath of war. She kicked over large, indistinguishable objects, digging through piles of ash until every inch of her pale skin was caked in black. When she found it, she was almost afraid to pick it up. Finally, she lifted the antique camera from a pile of burned rags and picture frames. It was unharmed except for a few small scorch marks. She pressed the button at the top, and it whirred to life.

She couldn’t take it anymore: The pain, the loss, and the destruction was too much. As the camera warmed, anxious to be used, she pulled the hard black object to her chest, fell to her knees, and wept.

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