PRANKSTER [1] ↝ C. DIGGORY

forty-seven

Throughout her entire life, Clarissa Weasley had never seen much value in stressing out, much preferring to go with the flow of life. Sure, it may have landed her in some sticky situations over the years, usually in the form of pranks Fred and George had managed to wrangle her into, but she always managed to continue on with the same light, carefree smile on her freckled face.

For Cedric, however, as the clock began to tick down to the approaching Third Task, and the weeks remaining had turned into days, which shortly turned into hours as the eve of the task had finally arrived, the stress on the boy continued to grow, as he began sleeping even less and studying more for the competition. It was the final event of the Triwizard Cup, the one that would finally crown the winner, and he wasn't about to allow any slip-ups on his part. His days were spent either in class, the library, or near the Black Lake, studying every area of magic possible and practicing even the simplest spells that were mastered in first year, attempting to be as prepared as possible for whatever awaited him.

"I'm worried about him," Clary said to Newt and Vasantha as they huddled together at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall, Clary stirring her spoon absentmindedly in the broth of the chicken soup she'd chosen for lunch that afternoon. "He hasn't given himself any sort of a break in days. Is he even sleeping anymore?"

"Not that I'm aware of," Newt informed her, taking a bite of his ham sandwich. "By the time I fall asleep, he's still flipping through spell books, and the books are out again when I wake up. He's about to be dead on his feet tomorrow, and the poor bloke may not even be able to compete if he's falling asleep against the maze's hedges."

"At least it's the final task." Vasantha assured them. "And once it's done, Cedric can get a good night's rest and celebrate that it's finally over."

"Can you believe it's been a year already?" Clary asked. "It seems like just yesterday that Dumbledore announced the tournament was happening."

"And once the year's over, then we've only got one left," Newt added, "until we say goodbye to this place."

"What do you think you'll do once you leave?" Vasantha asked them, and Clary thought to herself for a moment.

"I'm still not sure," Clary said honestly. "I'd like to play Quidditch maybe, if I make it, that is. I'm sure there's a team somewhere that'll take me. Fred and George want to start their joke shop, too, and I'd like to be a part of it. Who knows? Maybe I can do both."

"Well, my name's Newt Scamander, so there's only so many fields I can go into," Newt joked. "I spoke to Charlie when he was here for the First Task, way back in November. He said if I'd like to, there's a place at the Dragon Sanctuary with my name on it."

"I'd like to be a healer," Vasantha said with a small smile. "I'm usually the one patching up you lot after a prank backfires, anyways."

"A dragon tamer, a healer, and a Quidditch-player-slash-joke-shop-worker." Newt mused as the three of them finished their lunch. "I'm sure there's a joke somewhere out there about the three of them walking into a pub."

Clary smiled as they began to pack up their things, the clock on the wall of the Great Hall chiming that it was about to be one o'clock in the afternoon. Shortly before lunch, the champions had been summoned out to the Quidditch Pitch where the maze would be taking place the next day, and Clary was curious what sort of information they were being given about the Third Task. The tournament was all any of the students could talk about that day, the hallways buzzing as Clary had moved from one class to another. The excitement was building throughout the school, and everyone was eagerly awaiting one of the champions to be awarded the Triwizard Cup, and be crowned the winner.