The man takes out the robes and hands them to the girl in
Madam Malkin’s. She holds them, examines the stained limbs as they
unfold. Please please: fix them. The robes are yellow and black,
nothing special. There are tears in the sleeve, holes in the breast, scars
of a curse. They are well-worn, the casualty of a body living hard or
living young, perhaps both; waiting hollow for someone to step back in.
The man looks up as if recalling a long-gone golden-time sky.

You know who he is before his name is even said because this
is the grieving face you have come to dread in The Prophet - this, and his wife
and the son that no longer is, only was. In person you can see the
finer points on his eyes and lips and cheek bones that mark him
as Diggory. The girl tilts her head this way and that in a shake that
clearly means no, I’m sorry, I wish I could, then she folds the robes
into a fat square, pushes them across the counter top, and points at the rack
of clean, unworn robes that have not yet been filled by beating-heart
bodies. Four Galleons - Half Price Special! They aren’t the same.
The man’s face is a small crack in the silence, splintering open
with a naked and wet shame that says:

Beyond repair.