A/N: Good slash -said in the same tone of "good grief"-, this is angsty. Even for me . . . Gah. Well. I told you LB- san that I'd write both and now I have. I now have to remind myself that I'm not a Cedric/Harry shipper and stop feeling miserable. The comments on the wands by Mr. Ollivander are taken from the books.

Twelve And A Quarter Inches

The hangings were a screen of dead dark shadows drawn against those other shadows of a world that existed outside of Harry's bed.

For Harry, those living, moving shadows were too . . . eager for his liking. The world was better stilled, better frozen in the sepia- tinted light of yesterday. At least that way, it wouldn't seem as if, they had forgotten; that he was forgetting. Forgetting the way the moonlight caught the glints of dark gold in a pale glow, forgetting how righteous hesitation would battle blatant desire in those bright grey eyes and lose. Even the deeply whispered concern that Harry replayed in his mind time and time again was now a scant voice drowned by the bustle of anxiety and rumours.

Gripped by the fear that he had truly forgotten, he whispered it aloud.

"Am I . . . hurting you?"

Harry sunk back into his pillows, reassured.

Outside he thought he heard the hesitant steps of someone, probably Ron, approaching his bed. The person stopped at the barrier of curtain however and after a moment's pause, padded away. Harry exhaled shakily and realised that he had been holding his breath. He didn't think he could handle talking about himself right now. If he did he'd get caught in the current raging towards a future that had no place for Cedric Diggory. A current that had thoughtlessly consumed the void that Cedric Diggory had left in the world. Consumed but not filled. For people like Mr and Mrs. Diggory and probably professor Sprout, that void would never be filled, must never be filled. Even for Harry himself, he . . .

Harry leaned back against the headboard and dug into the pocket of his robes, his fingers brushing what he knew was twelve and a quarter inches of ash wood. He drew it out of his pocket and stared at its dim shine in the shaded light of the dormitory. He polished it every day. Harry knew Cedric would have wanted it. A wry smile twisted Harry's pale lips as he recalled the way Cedric would twitch every time Harry wickedly teased the older boy.

'Need help polishing your wand Cedric? It must be hard keeping it so well polished everyday.'

And then there was always the innocently evil torment in the hallways.

'What a magnificent wand Cedric! What was it Mr. Ollivander said? "Pleasantly springy." My eleven inches can't really compare.'

Of course, Harry never told Cedric that Mr. Ollivander had called his wand "nice and supple". Nevertheless, it was true that Harry admired Cedric's wand. It had so much more room and girth to grip. Hah, yes, Cedric would blush if he were here to listen in to Harry's thoughts.

But of course, he couldn't now could he. A flash of green light had taken Cedric's body from Harry and now the building weight of every undeniable past tense insidiously sunk the memory of Cedric from his mind. Twelve and a quarter inches of ash was all he had to keep him afloat in a tide of life, to help keep him from drowning in its rush for the next moment.

He knew Cedric would disapprove. To intentionally hurt yourself so you wouldn't forget, it wasn't right and Cedric was all about right. But even if this was the wrong thing to do, even if this was a perversion of what love and remembrance should mean, Harry still wanted to cling on to his twelve and a quarter inches of memory.

And every night his silent apology to Cedric was simply that, he didn't want to admit to himself that these tears would stop falling one day.

The End

Porticulis, 2005