28. Wand

It was perfect. A little sticky with sap, but that seemed to match the boy’s perpetually sticky fingers anyway. He swished the thin branch around, running about the yard. His bright eyes were wild with glee as he pointed the branch at any bird or beast that happened by him. When the boy’s father came out to see what all the noise was about. He could not help but laugh when he saw the boy excitedly pointing and waving it at the dog.
“Why won’t it work…”
“You aren’t old enough yet.” The father went out to his son and scooped the boy up in his arms. “Just be patient. You’ll be a fine wizard one day.”
“When?” The energetic boy wiggled in his arms.
“Soon. You’re almost able to go to school.”
“Like you and mom did?”
“Yes, just like us. Now come on. It’s time for lunch.”
“Can I take my wand with?”
“Yeah, sure.”

“Twelve and one quarter inches. Ash wood. One of mine, isn’t it?”
“Yes sir. Unicorn hair at the core.”
The excitable young boy had grown in to a handsome young man. His hair stayed the color of the dirt he seemed to have been always covered in, as if it had stained it then. His eyes too maintained that wildness, that lust to try and to learn. His smile carried that same gleam to it as well.
“You take good care of it?”
“Yes sir. Just polished it last night.”
“There’s a good lad. Well, the best of luck to you, Mister Diggory.”
“Thank you, Sir.”

Harry Potters eyes were wide and as green as the bolt of light that soared towards the chest of Cedric as they stood in the decaying graveyard. The dark-eyed young man didn’t even hear the other one shout. For a moment, he wondered if he could duck, or shoot something back at him. But instead, he closed his eyes.
For a moment, he saw the wild boy trying to make his pet dog fly with a bendy twig from a pine tree. Then there was the boy that would not let the beautiful ash branch part from his hand after it had been placed into it. He slept with it on his pillow for all of his first year of school.
It was strange that he could feel it fall out of his hand. He was sure that his mind would go dark before then. But there it was, falling from his fingers. He watched it hit the ground before he ever did.

“It is said that Cedric Diggory was the first casualty of the second wizarding war. We have since discovered that this is not true, but his death is one that is certainly most felt.”
The museum worker paused before the portrait of the young man. He was in the dashing uniform of the Hogwarts champion, dirty and ragged after rretrievingthe golden egg from the dragon. And he was smiling, the ash branch clenched and raised over his head.
“He had been accepted in to the auror academy, and was a shining hope for the new age of the wizarding world. His parents graciously have gifted us with his wand, which you’ll see in the case here. It was made by the wand master Olivander. Twelve and one quarter inches, ash wood with a unicorn tail hair. Please, no flash photography.”
And as the people left, the light caught the plaque in front of the case. “Wand of Cedric Diggory: The Boy Not Given The CHance to Live.”

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