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Snapshots by ShadowRose
Chapter 1 : Snapshots
 
Rating: MatureChapter Reviews: 11


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A/N: The quote used for the 'To Kill a Mockingbird' challenge is in bold. The story alternates between present-day and flashbacks, but given the fact that the flashbacks make up a large part of the story, I figured reading huge blocks of italicised text wouldn't be any fun. :P So it's divided using the horizontal lines instead.




 

I.

 

I have to do this. This is good for me – it’s therapeutic.

I have to constantly remind myself of these facts, as the temptation to light all of these pictures on fire is almost too strong to fight.

But this is something that needs to be done.

Each individual photo is splayed out on my duvet, as I sit in the center of the circle of pictures.

There are a nearly endless amount of them. What can I say: I’m my uncle’s daughter – or so I’m told.

I never got the chance to meet him. He was killed in the Second Wizarding War – yet another person I know that left this world far too early.

I push the thought from my mind, as best as I can, and focus on the first picture I can grab.

This photograph features a lanky, eleven-year-old boy, smiling goofily as his hair sticks out in all directions.

I push a strand of dirty-blond hair out of my face as I focus on the memory that accompanies this picture.

 






“What is that thing?” the boy asks. He had sat down across from me in an empty compartment on the Hogwarts Express, explaining that he was a first year too.

“This?” I look down at the device hanging by a strap around my neck. When I look back up, he’s nodding.

“It’s a camera,” I explain, holding my prized possession in my hands. My dad had given me this Muggle camera for my eleventh birthday, explaining that his brother had gotten one for his eleventh birthday too, and dad wanted to get me one too.

Ever since then, the camera has always been hanging around my neck, and I’ve developed a habit of snapping pictures whenever I see something I like.

“How does it work?” he questions again, looking at the camera with curiosity.

“It takes pictures,” I tell him. “They’re saved on film, and they can be developed into photographs later.”

“Can I try it?” he asks again, and I can’t help but feel that this boy asks far too many questions for his own good.

I don’t want to let him borrow it, because I’m afraid he’ll break it. It’s an expensive piece of equipment, and I know that dad spent quite a lot of money on it.

“How about I show you how it works instead?” I offer, trying to change the subject.

“Okay,” he agrees, smiling broadly.

“So, you look at this circle here,” I explain in the simplest terms possible, “and smile, and I press this button here, and it takes the picture.”

“Well?” he asks impatiently, “Are you going to take the picture?”

I wasn’t intending on taking a picture of this random boy, but I guess I don’t have much of a choice. So I click the shutter, and the flash goes off, illuminating every single freckle on the boy’s face.

“That is so cool,” he replies, mesmerized.

“Oh, look, you’re capable of something that’s not a question…” I muse quietly, although it seems as though this boy has heard it.

“You’re funny,” he replies bluntly. “I like you.”

I feel my cheeks heat up from the compliment from this random boy. “Thanks?”

“What’s your name?” he asks quickly, obviously unaware of my embarrassment. “I can’t have some random girl toting around a picture of me, now can I?”

“I guess not,” I reply softly. “My name’s Anslee Creevey.”

“Nice to meet you, Anslee,” he says, smiling again so that his one dimple shows prominently. “I’m Hugo. Hugo Weasley.”

 






It’s hard to believe it’s been over ten years since that day that I first met Hugo. So much has changed, yet it feels like no time has passed at all.

I pull another picture out of the pile. In this picture, Hugo is making yet another funny face at the camera, while McGonagall’s stern expression can be made out clearly in the background.

 






“Ugh, Anslee, I’m bored,” Hugo whines, absentmindedly flipping the page of his Transfiguration textbook.

I roll my eyes. “Well, what do you expect me to do about it?” I reply tiredly. We’d been up extremely late the previous night, sneaking around the castle in the hopes of finding the kitchens. James had offered to show us, but we wanted to find it ourselves.

Of course, after searching for four hours, Hugo and I had come to the mutual decision that we’d ask James later on today.

But thanks to our late night wanderings, I wasn’t really up for dealing with my best friend’s complaints.

Yes, much to my own surprise, Hugo was now my best friend. For the next month after that train ride, he would sit next to me quite often and try to talk to me again, so eventually I decided that becoming friends with him was my only available option.

Now, here we were, in second year, and I can safely say that Hugo is one of my favourite people ever. The rest of his family follows closely behind.

“I dunno, something interesting?” Hugo replies eagerly, as I scrawl down something McGonagall just said regarding transfiguring a frog into a candlestick.

“What do you propose, Hugo?” I ask. “We’re in the middle of a lesson right now, and, unlike you, I’m currently trying not to fail Transfiguration.”

“Pull out your camera!” he exclaims, a look of excitement spreading across his face. Even after knowing me for over a year, he still finds my Muggle camera extremely entertaining.

“I can’t just take a picture in the middle of a lesson!” I whisper back. “I’d get detention!”

“Just try it!” he replies, grinning so that his dimple appears again. “If you get detention, I’ll throw the frog at Lucy’s back so that I can go with you!”

I roll my eyes, but briefly think of how entertaining it would be to see Lucy’s reaction to being hit by a slimy amphibian. “Fine,” I concede, rummaging in my bag for my camera.

“Get McGonagall in the picture!” Hugo whispers, before making another odd facial expression, just in time for me to snap the shutter.

“What on earth was that?” McGonagall exclaims, turning towards Hugo and I, as I attempt to stash my camera back into my bag before she can see it.

Hugo, however, is shaking in his seat with laughter, and I can’t help but join in with him. We may be troublemakers, but we’re terrible at hiding it.

“Miss Creevey, was that your camera that just went off?” McGonagall asks sternly, locking eyes with me. Most students would cower under that glare, but the Transfiguration teacher always had a bit of a soft spot for my brother, so I’m not too afraid of her.

I nod, fighting off the smile that’s still threatening to creep onto my face, thanks to Hugo’s continued silent laughter.

“Ten points from Gryffindor, and you’ll serve detention Saturday night,” she reports, before turning back to the board and continuing her lesson.

I give Hugo a quick “I-told-you-so” look, and watch as he picks the frog up from the table, and launches it across the room at his Hufflepuff cousin.

The shriek that follows could rival a Grindylow, as Lucy looks around wildly in the hope of finding the culprit. At this point, both Hugo and I tumble out of our seats in hysterics.

 






I can’t control the small smile that sneaks up onto my face at the memory. We were always like that, causing quite a bit of mischief.

It’s funny that most of the teachers had expected James or Fred to be the prankster of the Potter/Weasley family, but it turned out to be Hugo.

I grab another picture, one that’s rather different from the first two. In this shot, the only figure is one that is much farther away, mounted on a broomstick, with Gryffindor Quidditch robes billowing behind him.

 






“Come on, Hugh, you know you’ll be brilliant,” I reassure my best friend, slinging an arm around his shoulders, although I can only do that so well, considering that at age fourteen, he’s already nearly six feet tall.

“Whatever you say, Lee,” he replies, although I can clearly tell that he’s still nervous. That’s the thing about being best friends with someone for over three years – you learn to read their every emotion.

I give him a quick hug for good luck, before rushing out of the tent – if anyone knew that I was in here, I’d get detention for a week. And I didn’t really fancy adding another week onto the three weeks I already had to serve because Hugo and I decided to turn the suits of armour into water-balloon launchers.

In an instant, I’ve snuck up to the stands, and I’ve joined the rowdy crows of scarlet and gold supporters as I watch the individual players fly out onto the field. But the only one I really care about is the last one.

“And finally,” the announcer screams, “Gryffindor’s newest addition, fourth-year Seeker Hugo Weasley!”

I scream my lungs out cheering for my best friend, as does the rest of our House. He flies out onto the field, looking much more confident now than he did when I saw him only a few moments ago.

The Quidditch match begins quickly, and I try to keep up as the scarlet and gold and blue and bronze players fly across the field so quickly they really become not much more than simple blurs of colour.

I try to keep myself immersed in the game, but I can’t help but watch Hugo’s form, hovering up in the sky, waiting for a sign of the Golden Snitch. I pull my camera out, and snap a picture. I can’t control myself – I love taking photographs, and the scene is just too brilliant to ignore.

Hugo doesn’t stay up in the sky for long – before I realize it, he’s hurtling himself towards the goalpost, obviously having found something that the Ravenclaw Seeker hasn’t considering the sixth-year bloke is still flying around the other side of the field.

The boy soon notices his error and starts flying towards Hugo, but it’s far too late. Hugo is light-years ahead of him, leaning forward on his broom, hand extended for the little golden ball that us spectators still can’t seem to find.

I watch as Hugo’s fingers close on the Snitch, and the entire Gryffindor section bursts into celebration. I can vaguely hear the announcer yell, “GRYFFINDOR WINS!” but I’m already rushing towards the field, much like the rest of my House.

I look around urgently for the messy red hair that is the signature of my best friend. When I find him, I break into a run, crossing the crowds and latching myself onto him.

“What did I tell you?” I say excitedly, as he returns my hug. I don’t even care that he’s been playing Quidditch for an hour or so, and that he’s sweating like crazy, I’m still hugging him.

“I did it, Lee. We actually won!” he tells me, sounding surprised by this fact.

“I knew you were going to,” I report confidently, smiling up at him. “I told you so.”

He shakes his head, laughing. “What would I do without you?”

“Die a horrible death,” I say cheerily, linking my arm with his.

“Well, let’s hope that I don’t have to find out if that’s true,” he replies.

I look up at him, the sweat glistening on his skin, his hair going wild on his forehead, his smile shining bright enough to rival the sun – and I realize something: a fact that is both beautiful and unnerving at the same time.

I think I’m falling for Hugo.

 




 

It’s amazing to think that that instant was the first time that I ever realized a fact so central to my existence now.

I reach for another set of photographs, recognizing these instantly, even though I wasn’t the one to take them. My camera had mysteriously gone missing for a few days, and then suddenly reappeared in the common room, looking just the way it had before it disappeared.

I had developed the pictures, only to find that there were a few more on the film – ones that I certainly didn’t take.

 






I run by the Room of Requirement after class, knowing that my pictures would be dry and ready to be tucked into a photo album.

For some reason, Hugo has been really nervous about me developing these pictures – I assume it’s because he thinks someone put a curse on my camera during the time it went missing.

I unclip each picture from the line they’ve been drying on. It’s really lovely, having a room that transforms into whatever you want it to, because I’m pretty sure no school of magic would ever have a random darkroom sitting around.

I organize them into a stack, throw my bag over my shoulder, and start flipping through the shots one-by-one as I make my way to the exit. I love flipping through the pictures, because it’s a really great way to reflect on all that’s happened in the recent past.

As I’m stepping out of the room, I come across a picture I don’t recognize. It’s not a strange picture, just one I don’t remember taking.

As usual, the picture is of Hugo, making a strange face. Except this time, he’s aiming a kiss at the camera – something I really haven’t ever seen him do before. My heart speeds up; ever since that Quidditch match, my body seems to do that naturally whenever I look at him. Especially given the current facial expression, which is humourous, but also reminds me that Hugo’s my best friend and wouldn’t ever kiss me like that.

I flip to the next one, vaguely confused, because it’s starting to seem like Hugo was the one who hijacked my camera. But why didn’t he just give it back? I wouldn’t have been mad, and it would have saved me a lot of stress over how I misplaced it.

This picture is one of a piece of parchment, with a quill quickly scrawling over it. I recognize the jumbled lettering as Hugo’s handwriting immediately, but the words are strange, and I stand there, trying to decipher what he’s writing.

Will… you… go… to… Hogsmeade… with… me?

I cock my head, confused, as a rush of blood flows to my cheeks and I inadvertently blush. Surely this doesn’t mean what I’m thinking it does. My borderline-obsessed brain is probably overthinking this, and he just means we need to go re-stock our supplies at Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes or something.

I look around nervously, wondering if anyone in this abandoned corridor has seen my awkwardness. As I turn my head, I see a familiar face: the one and only, Hugo.

“So,” he says, clearing his throat, and sounding almost nervous, “did the photographs develop right?”

“Erm…” I stutter, still flustered. “Yeah.”

“So, will you go with me?” he asks, avoiding eye contact.

“I mean, sure. We can get more prank supplies, I guess, and I’ll go with you to look at Quidditch supplies if you want and we can meet up with your cousins, and – “

He stops my rambling. “I meant, as a date.”

My heartbeat goes into overdrive, and my mouth dries up. Is he really asking this? I can tell that my panic seeps into my face, because Hugo reacts.

“We don’t have to, though, if you don’t want to,” he backtracks, apparently mistaking my reaction for something negative.

“I want to,” I say softly, finally looking him in the eyes and regaining the courage that a Gryffindor like me is supposed to have.

“Really?” he questions, like he’s unsure that I actually like him enough to go on a date with him and that I haven’t been gradually falling for him over the past two years.

I smile up at him, letting the awkwardness of our conversation subside. “Really.”

 






Every time we would think back to that conversation, Hugo and I would end up laughing hysterically. The two of us have never been that awkward with each other, so the weirdness of that conversation always made us laugh.

I start sifting through another stack of pictures, all of these from our seventh year. I love these pictures, as they’re all filled with memories of my first year of being officially “together” with Hugo. One in particular stands out, and I know this is because that picture was taken on the best night of my life, even if it didn’t seem all that eventful at first glance.

The shot is just of Hugo sitting in the library, bent over a textbook and flipping through the pages.








Hugo and I are sitting in the library studying for our N.E.W.T.s. This has become a nightly ritual for us, because the common room holds far too many distractions, and we have to focus if we want any hope of doing well.

Everyone in Hugo’s family is convinced it’s just so we can snog if we get bored of studying. But in our defence, that’s only happened twice.

I flip the page in my transfiguration textbook, trying to concentrate on the information about human transfiguration. This is easily the hardest part of transfiguration, and it’s usually covered extensively on the Transfiguration N.E.W.T. Therefore, I really need to focus on it if I want to have any hope of passing.

However, my inattentive mind can only stare at the page for so long, so I look across the table at Hugo.

I can’t help myself. His concentrated face and messier-than-usual hair is too photogenic to pass up. So, true to character, I pull out my camera and snap the shutter, getting a perfect shot of Hugo.

“Oi!” he protests. “What was that for?”

I shrug. “You looked cute.”

“I do not look ‘cute,’ “ he says huffily.

I laugh. “Whatever you say.”

He snatches my camera from my hands as revenge. “Hey!” I cry. “That’s not nice!”

He shrugs, throwing my previous action back in my face.

I stand up from my chair and go over to the other side of the table, hoping to get my camera back. But Hugo, being himself, has to make it difficult for me. He stands up to his full height, holding the camera above his head, knowing that there’s no way on earth that my short self can reach it.

I pout. “That’s not nice, Hugh.”

“Take back what you said and you get your camera back,” he replies smoothly.

“Fine,” I grumble. “You’re not cute, you’re very manly and handsome, okay?”

“Much better,” he says, setting the camera back down on the table. I reach for it, but Hugo wraps his arms around my waist instead.

“Well, now that I’ve got you on my side of the table, I hardly think I’ll be letting you go,” he explains.

This is what I adore about Hugo. He’s silly and weird, but also strangely romantic and adorable too, and it’s what makes him perfect.

“Maybe you don’t have to,” I smile.

He leans down and kisses me, but pulls away long enough to whisper, “I love you.”

I stare up at him in shock. He loves me? “Love” is a word both of us have strayed from using, because unlike some of the people at Hogwarts, we both think love has a lot of meaning to it.

But if I really think about it, love is exactly what I feel when I’m around Hugo.

“I love you too,” I reply, pulling his lips back to my own.

I lose track of time, and all of our studying is quickly forgotten.

“I knew it!” I hear someone exclaim, and we pull apart to see Roxy looking at the two of us, eyes wide.

Okay, so make that three times.

 






He loved me. Hugo loved me. And I loved him back. And that’s what makes all of this so painful.

The next picture I find is one taken right after graduation, featuring Hugo and the present he received from his grandparents. I actually hadn’t realized this picture had taken; my camera, being almost ten years old, had started glitching and taking pictures of its own accord.

 






“Lee! Isn’t it awesome?” Hugo beams.

I survey the unfamiliar contraption warily. “Is this what we learned about in Muggle Studies?” I ask.

“Yeah! It’s a car!” he says eagerly. He looks at the red vehicle excitedly, and pulls a set of keys out of his pocket. “Come on, Lee, get in! We’re going for a drive!”

My eyes widen as I survey the situation apprehensively. Are you sure that’s a good idea, Hugh? Do you even know how to drive?” I question.

He shrugs. “I know how to ride a broom, so I don’t imagine a car will be that much harder. Plus, Grandpa explained most of it to me – he apparently used to have a car too until Dad and Uncle Harry slammed it into the Whomping Willow!”

I don’t even bother asking how his dad and uncle managed to lodge a Muggle vehicle in an enchanted tree. From what I’ve been able to gather in meeting Hugo’s family, they do some pretty strange things. 

I’m still not too sure about this whole thing, but I can feel myself starting to give in. “Where would we even go?” I ask.

“That’s a surprise,” he says, winking at me.

I roll my eyes. “Fine,” I concede, and walk over to the passenger side of the car.

Hugo gets in the car, and turns it on. I have to admit; it’s kind of cool being in here. The seats are black leather, and the whole car has this badass vibe to it.

“Oh, and look at this!” Hugo exclaims, as he presses a button. Suddenly, the roof slides away and the car is topless – a convertible, I think.

I laugh, looking up at the sky, as Hugo messes around with some levers and eventually gets us moving out of the driveway. This is pretty fun already, although telling Hugo that would result in him laughing at my previous apprehension, so I do my best to hide it.

“So, where are we going?” I ask again.

“I’m not telling,” he taunts, smirking as he focuses on the road ahead.

I huff to myself, and end up distracting myself by watching the buildings and trees stream by as we travel away from Hugo’s parents’ house and towards London.

Finally, we pull into a parking lot, in front of a nice building, but one that I don’t particularly recognize. What’s so important about this building that Hugo couldn’t up and say it?

“Hugo,” I begin cautiously, “why are we here?”

“You’ll see,” he replies confidently, stepping out of the car.

I follow him, as he heads into the building. The lobby is rather nice, and I realize quickly that we’re in some sort of flat complex. Are we visiting someone? I wrack my brain to think of who we could be seeing, but none of our friends have moved out of their parents’ houses yet.

After a quick lift ride and a few steps down a hallway, Hugo stops in front of a door, pulling out his keys again, and unlocking the door. He opens it wide, and I’m faced with a large, empty apartment.

“Hugo,” I ask again, “what is this?”

“It’s my apartment,” he says, grabbing my hand. “And yours too, if you want.”

I look at him in shock. “Are you – “

“Inviting you to live with me?” he finishes. “Yes. This flat would be awfully lonely all by myself, and you’re the only person I’d want to share it with.”

I know my answer immediately. “I’d love to.”

He looks at me, grinning widely. “Really?”

I nod, and he responds by kissing me on my forehead.

This is the first chapter of the rest of our lives, and I’m so excited to jump into the story.

 




 

That was the beginning – I moved in with Hugo a month or so later.

Life with Hugo wasn’t anything crazy. We both woke up in the morning, made the coffee, got ready, kissed each other good-bye, and he went off to Hit Wizard training, while I went to the Daily Prophet to work as an assistant. We came home in the evening, I made dinner while he sat at the counter and kept me company, we watched Muggle telly or read, and we went to bed.

It wasn’t a complicated existence; it wasn’t anything wild or passionate, but I was okay with that. We weren’t the kind of couple that was crazy and dramatic and made for the perfect romantic drama, but we were Anslee and Hugo.

With him, I always had a reason to be happy.

With him, life was routine.

 




 

II.

 

I reach a new section of the photos. These are the ones that were developed only a day ago, when my mother, unbeknownst to me, printed out the pictures. My eyes gaze over them hungrily, absorbing ever last detail of these pictures.

Hugo has his head thrown back, laughing wildly. One hand is hung over the steering wheel, and the other is reaching out towards me and my camera.

 






We’re just leaving the cinema – we’ve both finally gotten over our constant exhaustion from work and have decided to do something that actually requires leaving the flat for once, instead of just spending the weekends lounging.

Me being me, I’ve spent most of the car ride home trying to take pictures of Hugo, while he attempts to block them. Unfortunately, his Quidditch reflexes mean that most of my shots show a hand completely covered the frame.

I’ve been waiting for this one though, strategically planning to wait until he’s stopped at an intersection and he’s let his guard down. I quickly pull out my camera before he can notice, getting the shot aligned and perfect before he can stop me.

“Come on now, stop taking pictures of me!” he cries, putting a hand out to stop me from clicking the shutter.

But it’s too late; I’ve already snapped the shot.

“Gotcha, “ I reply, smirking at him. I throw my fist in the air victoriously for good measure, just to rub it in his face.

“Give that here,” he says teasingly, reaching across the center console to grab my camera.

I pull away from him, laughing as he gropes at the air, trying to make contact with the camera or me. I try to slap his hand away, but given that he’s much stronger than I am, this only results in him getting a grip on my forearm.

I look up, and realize that the light’s green. I shake my arm free, and turn to Hugo. “Come on, Hugh, we’re going to make the people behind us mad!”

On cue, someone behind us honks their horn impatiently. “Fine, fine, I’m going,” Hugo says, throwing a wink in my direction.

It’s just one of those silly thing that he does that looks really goofy and stupid, but it also makes my heart pick up pace and reminds me how much I love him.

With that, he presses his foot on the gas, propelling us into the center of the intersection.

 






I can only vaguely remember what happened immediately after, but I really don’t even want to remember that much. All I know is that this is the very last picture I have of him.

I flip to the next one. I guess my camera was malfunctioning again, because I definitely don’t remember taking this one. It’s aimed at the driver’s side of the car, much like the previous picture, although this scene looks very different. All I can see is metal. Crushed metal, and a small flash of flesh that I know to be Hugo.

 




 

I open my eyes, looking around. I’m confused – I remember being in the car crossing the intersection, but nothing after that. I must have blacked out or something, but that still doesn’t explain my environment. It looks like the inside of the car, yet totally different as well.

I feel myself being pulled out of what I think is the car, but I don’t want to leave. I know Hugo’s in here, and I’m not abandoning him for this random pair of arms that is trying to get me out of the vehicle.

“NO! I can’t leave Hugo!” I cry indignantly, pushing the person away, who I can now make out as standing in front of me, trying to remove me from the car – if that’s what it can be called anymore.

“Miss, we have to get you out of the vehicle,” the man replies, void of any emotion. He makes it sound like this is not a big deal, like this is just a daily occurrence.

But this wasn’t something normal, something routine. Because I know routine, and this sure as hell isn’t it.

“Are you getting Hugo out too?” I ask. Even though I can’t see him, I know he’s here. And I’m not leaving if he’s not – people call us inseparable for a reason.

“Sure, Miss, we’ll get him out. Now if you could come with me.” With that, he led me out of the car and over towards an ambulance with wildly flashing lights. My body felt unfamiliar, like every nerve had been jolted out of normalcy. Nothing hurt, but everything felt strange.

This new environment is too bright – there’s a lot of white and it seems very hospital-like. I don’t like it. “I don’t want to go there, I want to go back to Hugo,” I protest, trying to return to the red car I’ve grown so accustomed to.

The annoying, monotone guy stops me. “Miss, you can’t go back.”

 






He’s right. I can’t go back.

I can’t go back and take back the words I said, urging Hugo to go forward, to drive into his death.

I flip to the next picture: another shot that was the result of the shutter being pressed unknowingly. Lights are flashing everywhere, but in the distance, the wreckage can still be seen. I know when this was taken.

 






I sit by the ambulance, as some random lady who I assume to be some sort of Muggle nurse presses a cloth to my head, trying to stop the flow of blood. I apparently have a “large gash” in my forehead, and they’re trying to stop the bleeding.

Our car was apparently hit by an intoxicated driver who ran straight through the red light without even thinking about it. At least that’s what I’ve gathered from the snippets of conversation that I’ve heard from the people around me, who act like I can’t hear what I’m saying and ignore me when I ask questions.

To be honest, I can’t feel an ounce of it. From what I’ve heard, not only am I bleeding profusely from my head, but I also have a few cracked ribs and countless bruises. But all I can feel is numbness.

I can’t find Hugo, and a horrible feeling is settling into the pit of my stomach. He’d been in the car, the one that was now just a pile of crushed and twisted metal. He wasn’t out here with me, so where else could he be but still in that deathtrap?

Police swarm around the car, presumably trying to figure out the best way to get it off the road. It is currently blocking an intersection, and cars are being detoured all over the place. I may not actually know how to drive, but I’ve ridden with Hugo enough to know that wrecks pose a hug inconvenience for other drivers.

I watch as another random person scuttles to the ambulance, looking around for something. When they pull the object of their search out, I recognize it immediately.

It’s the worst sight of my life – a body bag.

 




 

Only two things came out of that wreck in one piece: me, and this goddamn camera.

I don’t even want it anymore. Every picture I took just stands as yet another horrible reminder that everything beautiful that was once part of my life is gone. Most of the good pictures I took were of Hugo anyway, so I don’t have much use for it anymore.

Sure, I may be working for the Daily Prophet, but I don’t even know if that’s what I want to do anymore. Just looking at that camera makes me sick.

So I drop the pictures, my attention focused elsewhere. I grab the camera off my side table, feeling the familiar piece of equipment in my hands.

I throw it at the wall with as much force as I can muster.

The glass shatters, and the camera splits into two pieces.

Just like my heart.

I look down at my right hand, and the diamond ring sitting on my ring finger. They found this beauty in a box in Hugo's back pocket that night. He'd already spoken to my parents and everything - he was going to propose to me.  

But now he's dead, and we'll never get a chance to finish that story - to get married and have kids and grow old together. It's cut off, truncated, with no hope of ever returning.

I fall to the floor, sobbing. I can’t accept that he’s gone, not when every memory around me shows how alive he once was. And now, thanks to that fucking car, that fucking drunk driver, and that fucking night, all of it is gone.

Therapeutic was the wrong word. I don’t know who came up with the idea that looking at all the wonderful memories that have been ripped away is a good way to cope with death, but whoever it is, they’re an idiot. This didn’t help me “come to terms with the situation”; now I just want Hugo back more than ever.

I can’t handle being alone like this. Hugo was always around to keep me company, to keep me smiling.

Without him, I have no reason to smile.

Without him, life is unbearable.

 






A/N: Wow, holy one-shot. This puppy ended up being a lot longer than I originally intended, oops. :P I hope you liked it nonetheless, and I’d love to hear your thoughts in a review! Thanks so much for reading!




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