a wisp of wind

for the quidditch league competition, round one: "Don't tell me what to do!", every family has bad memories, and stubborn(ness).

for the tein len competition: amos diggory, brief, "did you see it? in the window?", quote underneath

But it seems now that it was only yesterday. Gee, how time slips away.

It was raining again - the sky was an overcast, gloomy grey, casting shadows on the small house nestled deep in the country, surrounded by only the quiet and the occasional chirping of birds.

The weather was an accurate portrayal of how he felt; old, worn down, so very grey. Everything was silent - for his whole life, he'd lived in the country. He'd woken up to the birds and the trees and the cool air, but it was too silent now. There wasn't enough noise.

He closed his eyes. It was foolish, childish of him to think everything would go away if he closed his eyes hard enough, but couldn't he retain a little hope? He should be allowed that small sacrifice. If he needed anything right now, he needed hope and his son.

Merlin help him, his son. His boy, his only boy. They'd had so much trouble having him, eight years it took, and he was a blessing when he came. They were so happy - they didn't need any other children, they just had him and that was enough.

Amos had never questioned his love for his son; a parent's love is something unexplainable - it was simple and unconditional, a sort of affection mingled with pride. Cedric was his pride. Such an intelligent boy, so nice, so smart. Was there anything he couldn't have done?

He remembered the day Cedric's owl had swooped through the window of their home, telling him that he'd been selected to compete in the Triwizard Tournament, and there was going to be an article on him in the Daily Prophet the next day. Pride was a garden inside of him; he wanted to show it off, show everyone how fantastic he was, his son!

Merlin.

His wife barely made any noise; sometimes she creaked around the house, preparing watery soup for herself once a day and washing her face in the loo, but the bedroom was her sanctuary. Amos stayed on the couch, laying on his back and cursing his aching bones, counting the ridges on the ceiling as his wife slept, thought, cried - whatever she did when she was up there and he was downstairs. They didn't see each other anymore - didn't they used to be in love? Spend every moment they could together, with their son? It used to be them, in this house, and they didn't have enough money. Sometimes, they didn't have enough food, but that didn't matter - they had each other, the three of them, and life was perfect. His life was perfect.

The creaking was behind him; his wife was preparing something in the kitchen. He didn't open his eyes or turn around; he could tell she was looking at him, feel the burning of her gaze in his side.

"You should eat," she said, and her voice was not strong anymore. It was cracked and broken, a wisp of wind, from a woman who didn't know how to function properly.

"Don't tell me what to do," he said sharply. There was something deep in his stomach that felt like regret and guilt, from treating her like this. They were both suffering, were they not? Humans were selfish, he realized. Lost in his own pain so much he couldn't acknowledge his wife's, too stubborn to move from his defensive, arrogant stance, missing his son because his son was something to him.

Selfish, selfish, selfish.

Merlin.

His eyes open when she walks away, creaking back up the stairs and away from him, away from their life together and into the four walls in the top left corner of the house that had become her sanctuary. Away from him, away from the pictures of their son that lined the walls of their home, collecting dust.

Dust had collected on nearly everything, but it wasn't the dust that made the air stifling. He could go out and tend to the garden or chop up some firewood, and the country air would still be stifling, threatening to suffocate him with every breath he took.

Their house was built on memories. Smiles, hopes and dreams and love and laughter. Where had all that gone?

Six feet under, with the body of your son.

Your son, Cedric.

Cedric, Cedric, Cedric.

His fingers clenched at his side, and Amos walked to the sofa stiffly, groaning as his knees cracked. He was so old now, wasn't it just yesterday he was twenty-four and married, thirty-two and a father? No, no, he was fifty now, and his hair was grey and by Merlin, everything ached, not just his bones and his muscles but his heart and his head, too. And it just kept getting worse. He needed to stop thinking, stop doing anything.

Cedric came to his mind. Five years old, bright eyed and young, ready to do anything.

"There's a rabbit, Pa. Did you see it? In the window?" The animal looked up at him, twitched it's ears, and hopped away, while Cedric clapped and raced for the door.

"I'm going to go find the rabbit," Cedric said.

"Don't go too far!" said his wife.

"Come back," Amos teased.

Come back. Don't go too far, Cedric. You're already gone, son.

Some things were fading in his mind already and sometimes he'd wake up and his cheeks would be wet, because he was started to lose the sound of his son's voice or the way he'd always looked for that rabbit, right up until he went into Hogwarts. His son's handwriting, messy with excitement as he told his father how he'd made Hufflepuff, and it was just so great. Everything was so great.

What was wrong with him?

He was laying on his back, staring up at the ceiling again. One, two, three, four. There was a bigger indent in the roof, where Cedric, two-year-old Cedric, had thrown his container of baby food, and in a miraculous show of strength, chucked it at the ceiling, giggling when it fell back into his arms and he only stumbled slightly. It was then he knew Cedric would be a seeker, a bloody fantastic one at that.

This whole house was memories; it was his son's smile and his wife's laugh, it was picnics outside on a sunny day, and right now, it was too much.