A/N JK Rowling created Harry Potter and the characters therein, obs.

The young man lay back on his pristinely made bed, one forearm behind his head, the other balanced on a raised knee, twitching his wand with a practised swish and flick that turned a bodkin, rocking on a chest of drawers at the end of the bed, into a bumblebee and back again. Every now and again, he tried to step into the little beasts mind, trying to capture the feeling of that moment when it became sentient and more morbidly, that moment when it became...not. For curiosities sake he attempted to use its multifaceted eyes, but it made him feel disorientated and slightly nauseous, so he stopped; but logged mentally to try again until he could master it.

"Apifors," he muttered and committed it to his prodigious memory

A few more days of freedom and then back to school, he thought. Two more years to plumb the depths of his potential across a broad range of subjects before perhaps, picking a specialty and pursuing it in the world at large. He glanced briefly at the bookcase, lively with reference books, sports annuals and keepsakes when his gaze fell upon last years Yearbook, stuffed to bursting with clippings, scribblings and the mandatory parade of his partners in crime. The end of Year 5, roll on Year 6.

He considered each of his classmates in turn, starting with his male colleagues, their strengths and weaknesses, how he might best them in a duel or a dark alley or a game of Poker. He considered without excessive aggrandisement that he was rarely well matched, finding himself better placed in such things against the year above him or indeed the scholars passed out last term. The unofficial duelling organised by the Centaurs in the Forbidden Forest had been exceptionally instructive. For a small fee and the right contacts, one could observe or participate. Cedric had done both and his cumulative Winners Purse, at the tail end of last year, had more than made back his original down-payment.

He scratched the corner of his jaw idly, the scruffy hair coming through slipped pleasantly against the pad of his fingers and the inside of his square cut nails. Tomorrow he would have to shave again, it was becoming an almost daily requirement.

He turned his mind to the fairer sex, shoving his wand under his pillow and reaching for the Yearbook. A self satisfied smirk graced his face, how he loved to relive these moments. Swiftly he flipped to the pages of moving pictures, beneath the name and 'most likely to' epitaph was something special that he had added himself. It looked nothing more than a tick box and he knew that if he ran a finger over it, it would feel slightly raised, like a welt caused by excessive ink.

In a way that's exactly what it was, except instead of ink molecules stacked upon ink, they were memories stacked upon memories, his very own version of individual pensieves. He tapped an elegant finger against pouting lips, considering his options. Every last box was grayed out, indicating that the tiny well of souls was full. His gaze lingered on the last to complete the set, the Keeper in his own Quidditch team Maxine O'Flaherty and the unashamed owner of what would euphemistically be referred to as a 'fuller' figure.

Pausing to ascertain the time, he cast a ward on the door and adjusted himself before dipping a cautious fingertip to the page. Almost immediately he was sucked into the kaleidoscope memory of the last match of the season, the raucous celebrations in the locker room afterwards and Maxine eyeing him speculatively as she made for the ladies showers. When he found himself the last to leave and she had not emerged, he sought her out and considered himself suitably rewarded for his time.

He relived again the pivotal moments in spectacular technicolour. The slick white of the tiles, the acres of creamy, freckled skin punctuated by rosy tints above and ruddy tones below. Glass green eyes so dark they reflected his awed face almost perfectly and lips as ardent as his own, ardent in pursuit of the known made new again by a different partner. When he had taken her to the wall, she had dragged him to the floor, all the while the showers pelting scalding rain. Mindful always of the need to make ready, he had lost first one and then two fingers to her body, only to find them rudely discarded as she helped herself to the protection he brought with him on the off-chance, his length and finally his considerable stamina. Bracing herself above him, she rode him frantically, his face was repeatedly pummelled by heavy breasts that he laved with his tongue when in reach and snapped at with covered teeth when they veered away.

He gripped her thighs as her breathing became harsh rasps and she leaned back instead of forwards, to force his way upwards and in, in, in, in time with her erratic movements.

The urgency in his body brought him back to his bedroom and he stumbled swiftly to the en-suite shower, shucking T-shirt and jeans in his haste to relieve the gargantuan ache in his pelvis. The shower spat weakly but soon strengthened to full on downpour as he leaned back against the tiles and finished himself off, chest heaving, with a few strokes and a lingering twist.

He dowsed his head and allowed himself a Cheshire grin, thinking about the yearbook again. Full house. Ever the completer-finisher, he gave himself a mental high five. Time to move on to newer pastures. Something a little less knowing perhaps? Certainly less rushed. Back to when sex was to savour and explore rather than for sport and one-upmanship. Was it not a duty, to give back something to the students coming behind him? Some research was definitely in order, there had to be something worth pursuing in the year below, he mused. He stepped out of the shower and towelled himself vigorously before retrieving his jeans, opting for a crisp shirt and sweater vest before drawing on socks and shoes.

His Fathers voice rang again in his ears. "Cedric dear boy, I have an errand for you," and with it the option that his father would prefer him to take in respect of his further education – starting in the Ministry as a gopher and working his way up through the ranks of the priggish and policied. His face soured and he blew his cheeks out in distaste.

There were mutterings at the dinner table just last night, his father mentioning in passing that he would soon enough introduce young Cedric to a few of the rich and fatuous, who would be only too pleased to spend a few years lording it over the son of the esteemed Amos Diggory. Thoughts of the Quidditch World Cup brought the ghost of a smile back into play. It seemed he would be required to pay a house call to the Weasleys in the Valley, they were to share a Portkey to the games and wasn't there a younger female Weasley...he couldn't for the life of him remember either name or year, but it was...something to look forward to...

In the Yearbook he left behind, the pages of preening ladies in ornate picture frames shuffled closer together, making space for a frame starkly plain in comparison that flickered in and out of being. The epitaph wrote itself in looping calligraphy underneath, 'most likely to be the brightest….'


Cedric stepped out of the house, holding his coat by the collar in one hand and was almost run down by his Mother.

"See you after the Match dear, Lambrini and I are playing Bridge with her young man and Dr Proudfoot to make up the foursome." She paused mid flow to air kiss him on both cheeks and he noted with some perturbation that her eyes were unnaturally bright. The fox around her neck must have died a ghastly death, whilst drowning in Chanel #5. "Give my best to Molly won't you, dear?"

"Of course," he agreed readily.

"Ta-ta, darling," she waved a gloved hand in his direction, before disapparating, mid stride.

"Bridge, my arse," he muttered. There were posters up all over the small village of Ottery St Catchpole exhibiting a half dozen muscled meatheads dressed in bow ties and slyly cut wizarding robes. If there was a magical bone in the observers body, the pictures were anything but still - there was great deal of flexing, resulting in a complete lack of imagination required, as to the nature of the spectacle the posters advertised.

He considered disapparating despite the fact that he did not yet have his certificate, but thought better of it since the day was pleasant and the Weasleys were less than an hour away if he didn't dawdle. He swung his coat over one shoulder and strode off down the hill, whistling a jaunty tune and quite looking forward to seeing both Molly and her progeny. Perhaps there would be time for a hand of Poker if the Twins were about, he thought. They presented an intriguing challenge as an opponent for card sharping, since they appeared to share some sort of Hive mind, working together to evict other players in a game, before turning on each other.

The ground levelled off beneath his feet and he settled into an easy stride, enjoying the breeze funnelling up the Valley from the tributary that gave the local icon its home. Otters were common here and the residents had found out the hard way that a well kept Koi pond was, to an otter, like Muggle pick n' mix, only presumably better for ones teeth.

The Valleys scrubby grassland gave way to stockier growth and eventually reeds. Cedric slipped his coat on in a smooth motion against the stiff breeze coming off the estuary and pulled out his wand. Practice, practice, practice, he chided himself, smiling, giving the rod an elegant wave. A teasel to a tit-marsh, the little bird launched itself into the air and whistled back the very tune he himself was humming.

He tucked his free hand into his pocket and bringing out the bodkin, he threw it high into the suns stare and tried to turn it, blinded as he was, back into a bumblebee. A drowsy buzzing drew a chuckle from his satisfied smirk and he clicked his fingers and dived forwards to catch the carved piece in the palm of his hand. He tossed it a second time and caught it, half behind his back for sport.

The Burrows roof came into view, crooked as a nags back and shrouded in mist or smoke, just as his footfalls startled a hare from its form. Cedric drew up short, eyeing the creature warily. It bounded a short distance before halting and rising a little on its back legs, looking back at him over its shoulder. It would not look the least out of place, given the surroundings, were its coat not brilliant white and its eyes blood red. Never taking his eyes off it, Cedric offered a deep and formal bow, being careful to keep the tip of his wand pointed away from the creature.

Fairytales his Mother had read him at bedtime as a small boy rose unbidden to the forefront of his mind and a prickle of unease raised the short hairs on the back of his neck. The hare was forever immortalised in 'The Lepus Legend' a salutary story warning the male sex about the consequences of infidelity. The woman scorned, dying of heartbreak returns to haunt her former cheating lover, taking the guise of a white hare. Whilst she chooses to save him from fates hand as many as three times, she ultimately stands as the cause of his demise and is never seen again, presumably following her deceased former partner into the ether.

Whiskers quivered as the hare caught his scent, then with a twitch of its long ears, it ducked a little in his direction and leapt again into the undergrowth. Cedric straightened and let out a breath, he ran a nervous hand through his hair once to calm himself and a second time to resettle the disarray before continuing on, strangely silent.

He stopped at the edge of the Burrows back lawn for a moment to admire the view, his good mood resurrecting itself like a jack in the box at the sight before him…and he congratulated himself as he remembered the name that had previously escaped him.

A/N A form is the name given to a hares nest. A bodkin is variously a small dagger or a wooden handled pointed device used for making holes in leather. The Lepus legend is not so named, but does exist. Thank you for reading.