The door of a small house opened and a man with two suitcases was leaving to get in a waiting cab. At least he was trying to leave. Clinging to his suit-clad leg was a small, round boy. The boy was crying and his father was doing his best not to get frustrated.
The man was about to go on a week long business trip, as it was referred to around the boy. Actually he was an Auror and he was off to fight against dark wizards for a week. Then he was to return home for a few days and then be off stationed in Romania for three months.
"Daddy! No! I want you to stay!" screamed the boy as he wiped his face across the fabric of his father's pants. The boy's mother was standing a few feet away biting her lip.
"Come on now, Peter. Let go. He will be back soon and then you can learn to play quidditch." The boy sniffled and looked at his mother and then to his father. He had always wanted to be taught to play the sport. He would often grab the album of his parents school days and turn straight to the picture of his father playing quidditch.
"Really?" he asked his father. The man looked up at his wife. She had been the one to forbid that he learn until he was older. The woman nodded.
"Really son. As soon as I get back." Peter's tears stopped flowing and the cab outside honked. The man bent down and patted him on the head. "Bye, son. Be good." The cab honked again and the man hugged his wife before rushing out the door and speeding away.
Peter ran up and pressed his face against the screen door until the cab turned the corner. Then he sat on the floor staring out the door. His mother walked up behind him. "What are you doing, honey?" she questioned, the beginnings of a smile on her face.
"I'm waiting for daddy to get back," he replied as if there was nothing unusual going on. His mother put her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing.
"That will be a long wait. Do you want to go have a snack instead?" He turned and looked at her curiously. "Apples with Carmel dip," she enticed him. His eyes snuck back to the road outside for a second before he jumped up and followed her to the kitchen.
After the snack was over he resumed sitting on the rug. In fact he stayed on the rug for every moment he could over the next week. He begged until his mother let him sleep by the door. He played there. He didn't even leave to watch his favorite show. When she asked him if he wanted to move he would just reply "I'm waiting for daddy so we can play quidditch." and kept on staring.
A week later Peter was sitting in front of the door drinking a cup of juice and smiling. Daddy was supposed to come home in a few minutes. Time was standing still for the small boy. He couldn't wait to learn quidditch. He had wanted to be a keeper since he was 4 years old (2 years ago).
Finally a car drove up. It was a long black, official looking car. "Mommy! Mommy! He's here!" The woman put down the dish she was washing and pulled off her rubber gloves before walking into the living room. The door of the car opened and a somber looking man in a black suit stepped out. Peter only bothered to watch for a second more before deciding to ignore this man and finish his juice, but his mother was stricken with worry.
Some kind of sixth sense told the woman what was coming. "Peter, why don't you go play in the den for a minute."
"But mom! I have to wait for daddy!" Peter replied, sounded almost offended.
"Just go," she insisted, her voice hardly a whisper.
The child did not yet understand what was happening, in all of his innocence so he just scowled and stomped away.
The black suited man knocked on the door and the woman nearly jumped. She answered the door and the man stuck out his hand to shake. "I'm Mr. Stevens from the Ministry. May I come in?" The woman only nodded and moved aside. The man lead himself to the couch and sat down. "You should take a seat for this, ma'am."
She did as he said. "What is the problem?" It was obvious to her that something was wrong and it had to do with her husband.
The man dung in his pocket and pulled out a letter with an official seal on it. "Read this ma'am. It should explain most of it."
Slowly she reached out and took the letter. Her hands shook as she broke the seal and unfolded it.
Dear Ms. Pettigrew,
We regret to have to contact you with tragic news. Donald Pettigrew passed away at 2:00 PM during battle with Death Eaters this Saturday. As you must know, he was a valuable part of our team and the ministry is in mourning with you. Please accept our dearest apologies. Attached is his last words to your family and his friends.
Ministry Office of Deceased.
These are his dying words which he requested we send for you to read.
"To my wife, I will always love you. Take care of things and move on. Don't dwell. I will watch over you."
"To my son, I am sorry I never got to see you play quidditch. You would have been good. I love you. Take care of your mother."
"To all friends, Thank you. That is the most I can say. Thank you."
When she was done reading the letter it had several smudges do to tears. A few garbled sounds came out of her throat before she managed "How?"
"The Death Curse hit him. It was painless. The reason I have come is to tell you the most horrific part of the story. The curse was not sent by a Death Eater, but by another Auror. It was aimed at the enemy but the Auror was pushed at the last second and the curse deflected to your husband. The ministry is terribly sorry. All the expenses of the funeral and burial and some compensation will be provided."
She look shocked until anger overcame her features. "Who did this? Who killed my husband," she exclaimed, her eyes flashing.
"For protection reasons we cannot tell you," the ministry man told her in a calm voice. Then he stood up. "I knew your husband. He was a good man and he wouldn't want you to try for revenge." With that he walked out of the house.
Mrs. Pettigrew sat rereading the letter without actually understanding the words for a long while after. It wasn't until after she read what her husband had said to his son for the sixth time that she remember she had to tell Peter. A shaky hand wiped her eyes before she went into the den. Now was as good a time as ever.
Peter looked up and knew that his mother was depressed. He stopped playing with his quidditch figurines. "Mommy, what's wrong? Did you scraped your knee?" he asked, demonstrating his innocence once again. He didn't realize there was something worse in the world.
"No honey. Its about you father." Peter just looked at her, waiting for her to continue. "He isn't going to be coming back."
"So I don't get to learn quidditch until next week?" Peter asked, sounding slightly concerned.
"I mean..." she sat down on the floor beside him and pulled him into a hug, stifling tears. "He isn't going to come back ever."
"Not ever?" he questioned his eyes filling with tears. "I don't get to play quidditch?"
"Not ever. You father won't be teaching you." Peter burst into loud sobs and the woman held him even tighter. "I'm sorry," she added quietly, allowing herself to cry.
Peter seemed to notice the drops falling on his back because he pulled away to speak. "Was he supposed to teach you quidditch too mommy?"