He had a homely office, tucked in the corners of the Ministry of Magic
building. No windows, no pictures and no furniture to clutter it but the
chair he sat in and the desk he sat at--no one was ever invited in to sit
and "have a chat" so there was no need for a chair to sit opposite him.
Once, his desk had been littered with photos and knick-knacks given him by his son. Now quills rolled back and forth across the desktop amongst the papers that never ceased to appear on Amos Diggory's desk and which never seemed to ever be finished. His inbox was filled a foot high and his outbox wasn't half as large.
With a frown on his face, he accepts the letters flown into his room without even really knowing he did so. Idly he pulls open letters, reads over them without really reading them and tosses them aside to scribble useless notes on spare pieces of parchment.
It had been two months. Two months.
The Diggorys were hardly rich but they were secure enough in their small fortune for him to have taken another five months, had he wished. But, no, he had insisted to come back to work as soon as possible--his work couldn't pile up on him and it would be a marvelous distraction.
And here was his work, piling up before him and hardly what could be called a distraction.
Cedric was his only son--only child, for that matter. He was his mum's pride and joy and his father's ray of hope. There was no doubt he could have been something; something great.
Even at a young age he had gone off into the fields behind the Diggory home with a broomstick in one hand and some muggle ball in the other. The broom would hardly rise three feet off the ground and the speed couldn't rival that of a soft spring breeze, but he managed. He'd bring the summer wind to his advantage and force it to work with his toy broom and then he'd fly till he could master it all. Shortly after they'd bought him a real broom. The glimmer of happiness in his eyes that day...
But he'd never see his son ride again. Never see him outwit the rest, outride the best and overcome the most difficult things thrown at him.
Amos had thought heartbreak in the child department was when he found that his little boy was growing up, that he'd no longer mix awkward potions and tell his father it'd cure the world of all its maladies. Then that day... that awful day. Limp, pallid and dragged--with his eyes still open.
Heartbreak was the death of that soul--not the death of that boy, transforming into a man or the death of that man turning into a father.
He'd never see his grandchildren. He'd never see them outwit, outride and overcome like the best of the Diggorys could.
He'd never see his son outshine them all. He'd never see his son again.
Once, his desk had been littered with photos and knick-knacks given him by his son. Now quills rolled back and forth across the desktop amongst the papers that never ceased to appear on Amos Diggory's desk and which never seemed to ever be finished. His inbox was filled a foot high and his outbox wasn't half as large.
With a frown on his face, he accepts the letters flown into his room without even really knowing he did so. Idly he pulls open letters, reads over them without really reading them and tosses them aside to scribble useless notes on spare pieces of parchment.
It had been two months. Two months.
The Diggorys were hardly rich but they were secure enough in their small fortune for him to have taken another five months, had he wished. But, no, he had insisted to come back to work as soon as possible--his work couldn't pile up on him and it would be a marvelous distraction.
And here was his work, piling up before him and hardly what could be called a distraction.
Cedric was his only son--only child, for that matter. He was his mum's pride and joy and his father's ray of hope. There was no doubt he could have been something; something great.
Even at a young age he had gone off into the fields behind the Diggory home with a broomstick in one hand and some muggle ball in the other. The broom would hardly rise three feet off the ground and the speed couldn't rival that of a soft spring breeze, but he managed. He'd bring the summer wind to his advantage and force it to work with his toy broom and then he'd fly till he could master it all. Shortly after they'd bought him a real broom. The glimmer of happiness in his eyes that day...
But he'd never see his son ride again. Never see him outwit the rest, outride the best and overcome the most difficult things thrown at him.
Amos had thought heartbreak in the child department was when he found that his little boy was growing up, that he'd no longer mix awkward potions and tell his father it'd cure the world of all its maladies. Then that day... that awful day. Limp, pallid and dragged--with his eyes still open.
Heartbreak was the death of that soul--not the death of that boy, transforming into a man or the death of that man turning into a father.
He'd never see his grandchildren. He'd never see them outwit, outride and overcome like the best of the Diggorys could.
He'd never see his son outshine them all. He'd never see his son again.