and all our days remembered

There is a moment where he could have turned tail and fled, he knows this, somewhere in the back of his mind. Could have realised that the graveyard was Dementor-grade style of creepy, that anyone who turned the Cup into a portkey to send them there was not especially interested in seeing Cedric front page of the Prophet, prize money in hand, eternal glory beckoning for ever more.

He could have just run, left Harry to deal with whatever it was. That's Harry's job, right, he knows that. Potter is a hero; victor of one war and future saviour of another - Cedric is just a champion. He doesn't stay because of Potter, though; once the initial rush has worn off, and he realises he's probably in some very deep shit indeed, Potter's the last thing from his mind.

He doesn't stay because of his father; his father who always drives him, always wants him to win. Not like this, though; not this way. He and his father might have both been Hufflepuffs, and as a result, strive perhaps to show the world there is something more capable in the house of Helga than the world would want to admit, but this is not a price either of them would wish to pay.

He steps in front of Harry because Harry could be anyone, and anyone deserves to be protected.

He challenges the wizard coming towards them because he has the right to know what's going on.

Harry tells him to get away, to run back to the Cup, to flee; he could, but he doesn't know how. He doesn't even think to run; he draws his wand and stays firm of purpose. It's the right thing to do, and the fact he doesn't need to be told it is is what makes it right.

The man he's challenging doesn't exactly look friendly, and as for what he's carrying, well. It's bad perhaps to rely on first impressions, but sometimes first impressions are all you have. When the thing hisses out three words, Cedric knows in an instant what's going to happen. He knows he's no hero to these people, no Potter; not even a champion. Just a dead weight.

Just a spare.

And yet still he does not break. He does not bend. He does not turn tail and try to find a few more moments. Two words, and he doesn't have time to say goodbye; all is a green flash, and cold, so cold, and pain, and the impact of the ground like a hard shock. He arches against it in a second, trying to fight, but he's already gone. This is the way the story ends; Prince Charming will not come again.

There is no smile on his face, no final peace. The light has gone from his eyes; that square jaw will never grin again. Lips parted, as if in shock, is one emotion that remains - he couldn't believe how easy it was to take a life. Especially his.