Chapter 137 : Diggory
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As I look around the Great hall, see all of the wounded, the dead, the grieving, I wonder why they came tonight. Each one of them entered this battle, knowing it could be their death and hoping it wouldn't. They said goodbye to their wives, or perhaps brought them along to fight as well. They kissed their children's sleeping faces and whispered silent farewells, their hands holding onto the tiny fingers a bit longer than they had ever before. Some of them must have cried as they made their way down that tunnel, considering retreat, but pushing forward anyways...and why? Why were they here?
Some came because it is the right thing to do, so they believe. They know that Voldemort needs to be taken down and they are willing to risk their lives in a tiny effort to make that happen. They are brave, they are fierce and now, their bodies litter the tables of the room, still and cold.
I am not one of those people. I do not hold out hope that Harry Potter can defeat anyone, hope was a word I stopped using years ago. Hope was a word that died the day my son did. Oh, how in an instant everything you know can be stripped from you and thrown to the ground like the shed skin of a snake. The moment my eyes took in the still form of my son, my only son, I no longer believed in hope.
Then why, you ask, did I come tonight? Why did I, Amos Diggory, get out of my warm bed, leave the arms of my wife, don my robes and fly into battle with all of these oh-so-hopeful warriors? My answer to you is simple: I came to die.
The moment I stepped into the midst of the battle, my head swam with the noise. Screaming curses, breaking glass, stone erupting on each side of me and crying. There was so much crying. My wand was out and I was saying spells before I even realized it. My feet kept moving, my wand kept waving.
Everything was moving so quickly, I couldn't even begin to tell you how I ended up in the second floor corridor, clutching the body of a young boy. I vaguely recall fighting a masked man, dodging his spells, sending back my own, hissing in pain as light grazed my shoulder and tore away at it. The weight of the boy hit me hard. I fell back onto the stone floor and growled as my glasses were thrown from my face. I toppled the form off of myself, barely aware of what it was, and summoned my glasses back to me.
The frames were bent and the glass scratched from dragging across the rubble littered hallway. No time to fix them, Death Eaters were everywhere, so I shoved them unceremoniously back over my eyes and finally looked down at what, or shall I say whom, had knocked me to the ground.
He was about sixteen, I'd say. His thick, black hair was plastered up in odd angles from what seemed to be sweat and too much hair product. His light blue eyes were dull and lifeless, but I found myself wondering if perhaps I had seen this boy before, when he was alive that is, if they wouldn't have had the same sort of twinkle that Cedric's eyes held. The thought of my son turned my stomach and I looked away from the dead boy's face.
Not just boy. Son. This boy, this dark haired, blue eyed boy was someone's son. Every man and boy in this battle was someone's son. Every girl a daughter. In that moment, I found something more than hope, I found purpose. If I could save even one son, even one daughter, then I would make a difference. No, it would never bring my son back to me, but that was never an illusion I clung to to begin with.
Cedric would fight. The words were clear and finite. There was no maybe, no doubt. My son, my Cedric would fight. He would fight until he had nothing left, he would fight with his last breath because that is the right thing to do and Cedric did the right thing. He could still fight, I would fight for him. Cedric Diggory could not stand and raise his wand for what was right, but Amos Diggory could, and he would.
Looking back on that moment, I consider it a little ironic. The moment that I decide there is something worth living for, my moment is taken.
The severing hex was so fast I barely felt it. There was a burning sensation in the lower half of my legs, then I hit the ground so hard, that pain superseded any that the hex had done. I must have gone unconscious, for the next thing I recalled was waking up here in the Great Hall, being tended to by a young woman who kept repeating that she was a nurse. She said that my legs are gone for good, the lower portions, that kind of damage just can't be undone.
For a fleeting, selfish moment, I felt sorry for myself. The thought of having to live out the rest of my days with one-third of my legs missing, becoming dependent on others for the simplest of tasks, it was a bit much to absorb. Then I cursed my selfish mind, for at least I was living out the rest of my life, handicapped or not, I was alive.
So now, as I look upon the bodies and those weeping over them, I wonder why they came. Is there even a chance that one of them came for the same reason I did? For the same selfish, ignorant reason?
I'll be the first to admit, I came here to die.
Now, I just want to help others live.
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