Wormtail

 Peter Pettigrew.

She wasn’t crying - not yet, anyway. That would come later, when it really hit her. Now, her hands were clenched so tightly to the edges of the paper that her hands were shaking, her knuckles whitening. Distracted by the attention she had called upon herself, she looked up. Sixth year. One of James’ friends - Peter, was it?

“Auror Shafiq,” Fatima murmured, then cleared her throat. A cracking voice helped no one. “My - my brother’s dead. And I - this -”

Settled in with pancakes for breakfast, Fatima had received two pieces of mail as she prepared her plate. The first came with Dian, a reply to the letter she had sent her elder brother last week. She grinned, pulling it off the little owl and ripping the envelope open - maybe she spent more time with Yasmin over the last years, but the fact remained that Anwar was more like her than either of her sisters, and they all knew it. One quick read and she knew exactly where to start with her reply, when she had time to write it over lunch.

The second piece of mail was a copy of the Daily Prophet, which Yasmin had insisted all three sisters subscribe to. Absently handing the owl a knut from her pocket, she loaded her fork with some pancakes before scanning the headings on the front page.

“Attack on Borgin and Burkes,” she murmured slowly, in the habit of mouthing along as she read. “That’s funny.” Anwar’s letter had mentioned a routine raid on the store, and that it’d been attacked, even gotten people injured…well, she had to read the article. She was too curious not to.

When she was done, her mouth was hanging open in shock and a forkful of pancake was hovering half-way to her mouth. Her eyes were wide, staring at the last line of text. Unfortunately, it said, Auror Shafiq was killed in the crossfire.

The only Shafiq who had been an auror in the past fifty, even sixty years, was the one who had written the letter she had left beside her plate.

He had been through two pancakes when he finally noticed the odd behavior of the younger Gryffindor. He didn’t really know her other than her name and that she had an older sister. Still, as he watched her read the Daily Prophet, he wondered what story could have grabbed her attention so. He glanced at a lone paper nearby and raised his eyebrows at the cover. 

Looking back to Fatima, he noticed she still hadn’t mood. His eyes panned around to see if maybe someone else saw as well; someone far more qualified than he was when dealing with female emotions. No one.