His eyes are open. He is staring at me. Except he’s not, because he will never see again. I lean forward to close them, because then he might look like he is sleeping. Any moment he will wake up and tell me more of his adventures at Hogwarts, of all the magic he can do, and this time I will listen raptly, just to hear his voice again.

But I can’t close them. His lids are stubborn, stubborn as he is-was in his own life. He was stronger than anyone I know, but I never saw it before. I used to think I had to look after him, or even both of them. My two older-younger brothers. Colin and Dennis. They were always bullied at school, and I would cringe for them, even if they didn’t seem affected. They were always so innocent, and I thought that one day I would have to protect them. But I didn’t. It was Colin who had to protect me.

I can still remember that day, when he came home from school last year. I had waited on the platform as the shiny steam engine grunted to a halt. As always, it brought with it a pang in my heart, that my letter had never arrived and I would never board the Hogwarts Express with my brothers. I saw him first, coming through the cloud of steam from the train, his curly hair bobbing over the crowd as he hurried towards them.

But he did not run towards me full of new stories and spells and magical things. His face, usually flushed and smiling, was pale, his hazel eyes frozen, as cold as they are right now. He put his arm around me quickly and kissed me on the cheek, but his lips felt cold. Dennis came up right after Colin. His hands trembled and he hardly spoke a word.

This was not just some new, grown-up Colin who had lost his energy. Something terrible must have happened to transform both of my brothers like this.

It was a miserable day, I remember (though the days were always miserable then) and I could smell the rain in the air as we drove home. Once we were inside the house, Colin checked that all the doors were closed and took us into the kitchen. In a few short sentences he told us that war was coming, that we must go to France, that he would organise everything. His voice sounded deeper, his words didn’t tumble out one after the other, each one chosen carefully with a breath in between.

He looked at his feet as he told us this, and I think it’s good he did. If he had seen the look of shock on my father’s face, I’m not sure he could have continued. London was the furthest he had ever been from home, let alone that we could barely afford the meagre meals my mother put on the table each night.

Finally my mother’s quiet voice interrupted the silence. “But our whole lives are here, what about Janie’s school and Dad’s job?�

Colin looked at her. She could not meet his gaze. He said,

“They will find you if you stay here. They will find you and -�. He broke off mid-sentence. He looked up at us. A tear clung to his eye lid, and his hazel eyes seemed several shades darker than before.

“They will find you because I’m going to fight them. I know I’m only fifteen, but it’s the right thing to do. I have to help Harry.�

I knew how much Colin had worshipped Harry, and how Harry always seemed connected to Colin’s misfortunes. In my mind, his Petrification, and really any time he had been in danger, or even just detention, had somehow been related to this Harry Potter. Secretly I thought that Colin seemed to care for this other boy more than me, his own sister. Neither Colin nor Dennis had ever seemed to take the time to understand how hard I had found it to go to the local comprehensive school and not Hogwarts, how much I had waited for that parchment letter with the beautiful green ink.

Now I am at Hogwarts, this place of my dreams. But rather than walking corridors with moving pictures and learning to do magic and making friends, I am sitting in a cold hall lined with corpses. I can smell blood and sweat and pain, the rotten taste of grief on my tongue. Regret tastes even worse, like a growth that takes hold inside you.

Because I didn’t even get to say good-bye, didn’t get to see him, to talk to him, to tell him I was sorry and I didn’t really mean it and that I don’t care that he’s magic and I’m not. Maybe if I tell him now he will hear it, wherever he is, but I don’t think so.

There is no magic than can bring back the dead. He told me that once. It was one of the few times he was sad about the magical world. Usually he was bubbling over with excitement about each new trick and spell he learnt, about all the events that happened at Hogwarts. Even being Petrified gave him some kind of thrill. I used to receive his letters and hear his stories with awe and excitement, because of course I would be going to Hogwarts too. Colin had, and then Dennis too, so my turn must be coming. I waited at the window for an owl every morning after my eleventh birthday, right up until the 1st September, and then I hated them both for bringing magic into my life and not letting me share it, and I was sullen and horrible and selfish and then Colin saved my life, he saved our whole family, and now he’s dead and I don’t even care about seeing Hogwarts but it’s all too late.

And finally the tears start gushing down my cheeks. I feel a hand reach for mine. We have never been good at physical contact in my family but I am glad Dennis is with me now. Dennis, who so desperately wanted to stay and fight with Colin despite only being fourteen and not knowing enough magic. Dennis, who bowed his head in shame when we got on the boat for France, who was so desperate to help in the war that he tried to escape from the attic we were living in.

Before I might have thought our escape to France an exciting adventure, a way to be a part of Colin and Dennis’ magical world, but after I saw both their faces that day I was terrified. We had to get false identities and live in the attic of a French wizarding family for a year, and I don’t think I took a deep breath for that whole time. Every time I closed my eyes I would see Colin dead, I would see ‘them’ coming to find us. I didn’t know what ‘they’ looked like, who ‘they’ were, but my imagination conjured enough of a nightmare: dark, misty shapes hidden behind doorways, my parents, my brother, the Lefebvres, me suffering unspeakable horrors. My naïve mind could not specify what these horrors would be. Now, sitting in this hall of death, I have more of an idea, and I am glad of my former innocence.

I don’t know if I will ever sleep again.

The weather was nice in France, unlike the mist caused by the Dementors in England, but it was like we had a Dementor in the room with us. On the rare occasions I smiled the muscles in my face hurt from lack of use. With nothing to distract me, every second was filled with thoughts of Colin.

Monsieur Lefebvre Apparated us here as soon as he got word that the Battle was won. When we arrived, Dennis told us to wait at the entrance as he ran to find word of Colin. Barely two minutes later I heard his scream. I had never heard him scream like that, but I knew, instinctively, that it was him, and what it meant. They say that siblings, or lovers, or close friends can tell, even thousands of miles away, when their loved ones die. I felt nothing. When I heard the battle was happening my heart wound itself into a tight knot with anxiety, but there was no moment when I knew, not until I heard Dennis’ scream and I stopped breathing.