On The Topic of Death: Regression

Martha Diggory sighed in defeat as the disquieting sound of shattering glass bounced off the walls and down the stairs. Martha had an ear for deciphering damage by sound alone. That crash and clatter had certainly been the demise of her beloved vanity mirror, the one with the frosted border and pink handle. She set down her sewing and stared up at the ceiling. Glass could be heard crunching underfoot as the culprit trod upon the damage. Her concentration was disturbed by the sound of Anthony Diggory snorting in his sleep. The sloth of a man repositioned his immense form on the recliner. Martha watched her lethargic husband, one of her penciled eyebrows arching up in contempt. There were only four people who resided in Martha Diggory's house. Other than herself, Anthony was snoring across the parlor, her only daughter, Elaine, was currently finishing her fourth year at Hogwarts, and the fourth... Oho that troublesome fourth! The fourth was her young nephew, a precocious Cedric Diggory, who insisted on breaking every fragile treasure in her possession.

Cedric Diggory's aunt huffed. The small pitter patter of feet could be heard scampering from her bedroom.

"Anthony! Cedric! Do something about that boy!" Martha waved her wand at the ceiling to emphasize her words.

"My darling," Anthony opened a bleary eye. "That boy is none of my concern."

"None of your concern?" Martha seethed in indignation. "That child is your brother's son. His son that he left in our charge so that he could run off to the Americas!"

"My brother did not 'run off' to the America's. It is business. Britain's presence in international affairs concerning magical creatures had weakened significantly... why waste my breath? All you care about, Wife, is broken china and skirting your responsibilities regarding children."

"My responsibilities?" Mrs. Diggory gave her husband a horrified look. "He is not our son! What sort of obligation do I hold towards a rug-rat that isn't from my own flesh and blood, or even your seed?"

"Precisely, my tart. He is not from my seed, and as such, the child falls into your obligation as the only female in this household," Anthony said, closing that bleary, tired eye once again.

Martha sputtered.

"You shouldn't have agreed to take him. At least I should have had a say in this, seeing that I am the only one taking care of him!" Martha rose from her seat to stand over her husband, like a tick bird twittering against the girth of the rhino.

"He is seven, dear. Boys will be boys, after all," Anthony replied.

"Five, dear husband. He is five!"

When it became quite clear that Mr. Diggory would no longer take part in the conversation, Martha Diggory smoothed the skirt of her dress. Straightening her hair in a nervous habit that had always irked her mother so, she made her way to the stairs. She followed the sound of running water. Goodness, what was he up to now? Martha could not keep up with this child. He would help her with housework for a month to make up for that prized mirror. It had been one of the last possessions she had as a reminder of her departed grandmother. Young Cedric would help with the dishes, help her put the clothes out on the line. She would make that young rapscallion clean the floor with his very own tooth brush until she was satisfied that the mirror's worth had been earned.

The red wine of Martha's anger evaporated as she opened the bathroom door and screamed at the sight that greeted her.

"Meemaw..." Cedric looked up at his aunt from his perch on the side of the tub.

"Cedric! What have you done?" Martha clung to the sink for all she was worth, the oncoming faint making her sight fuzzy. She really had never been very good with blood.

Cedric looked down at the bath water, red from the deep wounds in his feet. The damage had bled copiously, poor Cedric didn't know what to do.

"Why didn't you call for help? Foolish child!" Martha held a hand to her mouth, yet she did not pull out her wand. Martha did not cast any charms to heal her nephew.

"Martha? MARTHA! By heavens, woman! I heard a scream," Anthony bellowed up the stairs. He was greeted by silence and soon the thunderous blows of his feet ascending the stairs could be heard from the tiny bathroom.

Martha looked at the child, pale as the porcelain tub on which he sat. He did not cry, and he did not scream. What sort of terrible, unearthly child was this? Martha fell into shock as her husband wrestled his way into the room, knocking her down onto the toilet. He wasted no time. Unlike his wife, Anthony Diggory rushed forward, scooped the fainting child up into his arms, and healed the damaged caused by Martha's broken mirror with a quick, efficient flick of his wrist. He left, carrying his brother's son to the bedroom to recover. Martha followed weakly. She watched as he tucked the child in with a rare tenderness that stirred within the spiteful woman a wrenching hatred.

"That child is disturbed, Anthony. He is put together wrong!"

The room jerked out of clarity at the heavy, backhanded slap she received.

-peanut