Misplaced Pride

Misplaced Pride

All my life, I was proud of my son for the things he did. Who wouldn't be? Who else, after all, could say that his son had beaten the famous Harry Potter at Quidditch?

It took his death to make me proud of the person he was. Proud, as any good father should have been, rather than ashamed.

When he went to Hogwarts, I had hoped he would follow my own footsteps into Slytherin, a living reminder that not every child sorted into that house was a fifth-generation Dark Wizard in league with Voldemort. Perhaps he would have followed his mother into Ravenclaw; that would have been perfectly acceptable.

But Hufflepuff? We used to say that their house color, yellow, was the brightest thing about them. What an embarrassment for a high-ranking Ministry official - having his only son sorted into the house that only seems to produce low-level office grunts and sweet, unassuming housewives. The house of people who played by the rules, rather than having the imagination and ambition to make their own.

That first year, I avoided so much as mentioning my son's name at the office, and I avoided my home as much as possible while he was home for the summer. I knew he shouldn't see the disappointment in my face every time I looked at him, but he must have seen it - felt it - anyhow.

I know now that he was determined to be as successful as a Hufflepuff could be, and that his determination came from the loyalty and integrity that put him in that house - he was determined to be a credit to his family, not an embarrassment. At the time, through the glowing letters home from his professors, I could only see that he was the best of a mediocre bunch. Even a wizard of average intelligence and physical capability could stand out in a house that I always believed was the home of the near-Squibs.

He joined the Quidditch team his second year, as their Seeker. I was almost proud of him, but, as Lucius Malfoy (damn him!) mercilessly reminded me, he was the Seeker who lost every match. The next year, they won against Gryffindor and Ravenclaw, and I had something to be proud of, at least. My son discounted both victories - he said both teams had been playing with their reserve Seekers, and he would never have stood a chance against their first string.

When he went back to Hogwarts for his fourth year, his Quidditch teammates chose him as captain. His fifth year, he scored extraordinarily well on the OWLs, and he became the only Seeker at Hogwarts to catch the Snitch before Harry Potter. I finally had a son to be proud of, despite the bright-yellow stigmata the Sorting Hat had thrust upon him.

Or so I thought.

The next year, my son was chosen to represent Hogwarts in the Triwizard Tournament. Unfortunately, he was stuck sharing the limelight with Famous Harry Potter, and Lucius Malfoy never stopped reminding me of that. At least, I reasoned, Cedric was older, knew a few more things, and stood a real chance of bringing glory to the Diggory name. The Ministry might see me in a new light, as the father of such a son, and Cedric's accomplishments could be added to my own, and I could finally be promoted above that miserable rat Malfoy. He had been a year ahead of me at Hogwarts, and never did he let me forget it.

I was going to watch Cedric win. I was going to show everyone what our family was capable of.

Before he went into the maze, I told him to make our family proud.

It was the last thing I ever said to him while he lived.

Are you shocked to learn that I feel I share the blame for his death? If I had not pushed him so hard, if I had taken pride in his loyalty and his sense of fair play, that sense of loyalty - to me, and I know how little I deserve it - would never have driven him to become a school champion. The "spare" school champion. The Dark Lord saw him as useless - how can I forgive myself for the times I felt the same way?