Work Text:
George's boots crunch through fresh snow as he trudges across the courtyard, hands in his pockets and blood-red scarf pulled up close about his face. A conspiratorial knot of boys notices him coming— heads turn, the circle opens. Lee Jordan's friendly shout is a crisp echo in the stillness; he goes to meet him, reaches out with a mittened hand to draw him in by the shoulder. George rubs his hands together and laughs at what Lee is saying, but doesn't answer, doesn't smile with his eyes.
Click.
In the darkroom, Colin lays negative over negative, crops with a delicate blade. Hunches over the desk with a tiny bottle of retouch fluid, adding a second trail of bluegrey shadowed footprints in the snow, just like the first. It takes two baths of specially diluted developer to get the timing right. Colin's hands burn with chemicals and magic, even through the gloves.
It's nearly midnight when Colin is finished. He pins his work to the clothesline and watches, waits for the figures to begin to move.
When the print is dry, Fred Weasley will live again.