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John Cleese was about to enter the pub when he heard an all-too-common question.

"Are you Mister Python?" asked a rather squeaky voice.

He stopped and turned and took in the sight before him. Standing not three feet away was a small, bespectacled boy who could be no older than five or six years. The boy wore ill-fitting clothes at least two sizes too big for him, had a smudge on his left cheek, and black, unkempt hair.

"I suppose I could be," John said with an easy smile as he crouched down to eye level to the boy.

"I saw you through the slats of the cupboard door on the tele," the boy said.

John puzzled at the for a moment before he asked, "Why is there a cupboard door on your tele?"

The boy looked puzzled for a moment. "There isn't," he said, "the door is on the cupboard where I stay," he explained.

"I see," John said, but didn't really.

"If you're Mister Python, I found something of yours," the boy said earnestly.

John feigned surprise. "Did you now? What did you find of mine?"

The boy half turned and turned back. John saw the boy held in both of his hands a rather large, white rabbit. "This. He was in my Aunt Petunia's roses, you see."

John nearly smirked at the sight of the overly-large, gregarious, long-eared, short-tailed animal that half-heartedly struggled in the boy's arms as the wee lad struggled to keep it from its freedom.

He reached over and drew the animal from the boy's arm and tucked it carefully under one of his own. It seemed to calm at his touch and did not struggle with him to flee.

"There. All calm now. What makes you suspect this is my rabbit?" John asked the boy.

"Well, I saw the documentary on the tele and it had the kaniggits using a holy object to help make the rabbit sleepy and when I found this rabbit, it was asleep, so it had to be yours," the boy explained.

"Well, that certainly seems logical to me," John said as he laughed in his head at the boy's innocent nature. "This most certainly must be my rabbit then," as he decided he would have the publican call the RSPCA and have the animal taken in to be cared for.

The boy nodded and turned away.

As he judged the waif's likely situation, he called out to the boy, "Wait now, lad. I have a reward for you for finding him."

The boy said over his shoulder, "Missus Figg says a good deed is its own reward."

"Is she one of your teachers?" John asked in an attempt to get the boy to stop. Amazingly, it worked.

The boy stopped and turned. "No. She is the woman I started living with yesterday as my Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia were killed yesterday."

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This one simply died mid-write. The premise had been that Vernon and Petunia had been killed by the rabbit and Harry knew it had to be the Lagomorph of Caer Bannog and had to be returned to its rightful owner who is, of course, Mister Monty Python.

The rabbit in question genuinely is a vorpal lagomorph and, if one listened closely, would hear the sound, "snicker snack" as the rabbit's nose twitched. John, upon closer examination of the rabbit, realises, with horror, that this really quite likely is the Lagomorph of Caer Bannog, a creature he thought had been simply spun as a tale. When the rabbit looks back at him with blood-red eyes and smiles, showing row upon row of jagged, bloody teeth, he squeals and soils himself.

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