Harry Potter and the Knife of Klingsor, Part 1

Background:

When we picture the Middle Ages, we envision monks and monasteries, knights, castles, and troubadours as well as the Inquisition, alchemists, witches, and jongleurs. However, we must bear in mind that emasculated men, who had been mutilated either voluntarily or by force, also belonged in this group. It is the rare opera-goer who is aware that the prototype for Klingsor, the lord of the opulent castle in Wagner’s Parsifal, which is sung as a bass roll, was in fact a castrato in its medieval epic source, Parzival, by Wolfram von Eschenbach (1170-1220). This Arthurian legend recounts the king’s revenge against Klingsor, here called Clinschor:

Clinschor the Duke was in the mouths of all, both men and women, until he fell into disgrace. Sicily had a noble king called Ibert, and Iblis was his wife, the loveliest woman ever weaned from a mother’s breast. Clinschor served her until she rewarded him with love. For this the king robbed him of his honor. If I am to tell you his secret, I must ask your forgiveness, for it is unseemly for me to say such things. One cut of the knife, and Clinschor became a eunuch … The king found Clinschor with his wife, sleeping in her arms. If he found a warm bed there, he had to pay the heavy price that by the hand of the king he was made smooth between his legs. The king thought that this was his right. He clipped him in such a way that he can never more give pleasure to any woman.

Klingsor’s emasculation had unintended consequences, however. He was also a great magician, and the state of chastity that was thrust upon him bolstered his magical powers.

-Eunuchs & Castrati, A Cultural History, by P. Scholz, pp. 240-1.

Little Seamus Finnegan was feeling very out of sorts that morning. As the sun streamed in through his window and fell upon his slightly singed mop of sandy hair that always seemed to need cutting and looked unkempt, he cracked one eye open and uttered a foul curse that wilted the geranium in a small clay pot on the sill. Both eyes then popped open and filled with tears as he realized what he’d done. He had, it seemed, a rare talent for destroying things. He sighed heavily.
“Ut leezt it dint catch fiyer,” he whispered in a thick, Irish brogue as he wiped at his eyes with the hem of his long nightshirt.

It was just too much, he thought. Ever since arriving at Hogwart’s, Seamus had found himself the only Irish lad in his Year. He was also the smallest boy in his Year of new students, and he hadn’t made any friends. No one seemed very interested in him, not even his Teachers, who seldom – if ever – called upon him in class. He didn’t have a roommate, like everyone else in Gryffindor House, and he was having one hell of a time dodging the other boys in the communal showers and finding some privacy. His classes were difficult for him, and his every attempt at Magic was usually an explosion. As he took the wilted flower in his hands, the tears spilled down his soft cheeks and dropped onto the pale green foliage as he sniffled and finally began to cry. His pert nose picked up the familiar scent that all geraniums give off, but then the scent faded as the flower wilted even more. “I know how ya feel,” he mumbled to flower, choking on his own sorrow as his slight shoulders began to tremble.

It wasn’t just the flower, though. That worthless git, Draco Malfoy, had taken to calling him ‘Torch-boy,’ after the incident with the feather in Wand Class that had, for the first time at Hogwart’s, singed most of his eyebrows off and very nearly taken off Harry Potter’s left ear! The white-blonde boy from Slytherin House had then asked him if he were related to any of the O’Leary clan of Ireland, of which a famous lady member who had owned a cow was blamed for burning down most of Chicago, Illinois, USA. Ever since then, no matter how careful he was, or how much his eyebrows came back, Seamus often heard faint ‘moo’ing’ sounds whenever he passed by a Slytherin House student in the hallways. Adding the fact that Sir Nicholas, the nearly-headless ghost of Gryffindor House, had suggested installing fire extinguishers in every room of the Dormitory, had only added insult to injury.

As he sat with his bare little feet dangling over the edge of his huge four-poster bed and cried over his murdered flower – a gift from his favorite Auntie – Seamus wondered why he was even there. He was a half-breed, as Malfoy sometimes liked to call him. His mother was a witch, the revelation of which had shocked and terrified his Muggle father to the point of a protracted separation. Seamus was convinced that by the end of his First Year, if he didn’t flunk out or totally blow himself to bits, that he’d be going back to a broken home without a father. Prejudice, especially with Muggles, ran deep and died a hard death. And now the boy was encountering the same type of prejudice at Hogwart’s, or so he felt. In his case, however, it ran backwards compared to the rest of the world. While no one was crying to have him burned at the stake (of which he was doing a good enough job of for himself, thank you), no one was actually helping him out much either. Even Neville Longbottom, a slightly overweight and rather dumpy and shy Gryffindor lad, had backed out of his offer to use the counter-curse to the leg-lock spell that Malfoy had cast upon him.

“The last thing I need is to have you settin’ my kneecaps on fire,” Longbottom had declined, as Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger had run from the room on some tangent involving a Dumbledore trading card quote. Some tangent, Seamus assumed, that would eventually cost their House more points. Their adventures, those three, always seemed to do that.

As the sun rose a bit higher, Seamus just sat there. He didn’t try to hold it in. He simply cried. He was homesick, and he realized that he really wasn’t that good of a wizard. He and his family had sacrificed a great deal to put him where he was, and the pressure of impending failure was weighing heavily upon him. Lately, however, with so much to learn and so many things going wrong, he pondered his entire situation and found that he was not only out of sorts, but that he was quite miserable as well. He found that he also had to urinate very badly, and wondered just how long he could hold it without an accident. Getting out of bed, he decided, simply wasn’t worth the risk that day. Besides, if he wet the bed, it certainly wouldn’t have been the first time and Seamus knew that it wouldn’t be the last, either.

It was only his First Year, and already Seamus Finnegan had paid more to attend Hogwart’s School of Witchcraft and Wizardry than anyone could possibly imagine. “I don’ think it wuz wurth it,” he mumbled to no one, clenching his legs together and trying to hold it.

He was still lost in his own thoughts, with tears still falling from his tightly closed eyes, when he felt the edge of his bed sink down. It frightened him so badly that he tossed the small flowerpot and yelped. His strained bladder also gave way, and he fell over backwards, fumbling for his wand that was on the nightstand by his bed.

“Wingardium Levi-OH-suh!” Seamus heard a familiar piping voice say, calmly at that, and he wiped at his eyes to find his wilted flower hovering over the windowsill as Harry Potter guided it gently back to rest in the yellow morning sunlight. He was dressed only in white printed boxer shorts that had the Gryffindor House colors of Maroon and Gold circling the waistband, with little images of Golden Snitches and Quidditch Broomsticks printed all over them. He smiled a near-perfect smile, and Seamus realized that he was staring at Harry. Thoroughly embarrassed as having been caught – not only crying and staring, but at wetting himself as well – Seamus jerked his blankets up over his head and muttered, “Thanks.” He felt the edge of the bed sink down again, and groaned. Harry hadn’t left, and he wanted to be left alone. Or at least he thought he did. It seemed that he was always alone at Hogwart’s, and he had thought that he was getting used to it. But he’d noticed that he’d been staring, at boys, a great deal of late and it bothered him. So Seamus just kept his head under the covers, hoping that Harry would just go away.

Harry raised an eyebrow, which scrunched up his lightning bolt scar just over his right eye, and shook his head. His disheveled black hair flopped this way and that, and his green eyes sparkled behind his round glasses. “Not to be nosey, Seamus,” he asked in soft whisper as to try and not wake anyone else so early, “But what’s wrong? I heard you crying, and I thought you liked that little flower.”

The mound of blankets and pillows shifted and mumbled, “I did.”
The ‘I’ sounded like it had too many vowels inserted, more like ‘Iy-hu’, and Harry smiled. He loved to listen to Seamus’ accent, but he also sensed that something was very wrong with the smaller boy. It didn’t take a great wizard, a thumpin’ good one or not, to figure that out. Carefully navigating himself closer to the lump that was Seamus, so as to stay on dry cover, Harry moved in closer and shook him. “Are you quite alright, Seamus?” He asked.

“NO!” The smaller boy choked, “I’m not! Just leave me alone and tell the Teachers I’m ill. I s’pose Madame Pomfrey will wanna go at me, but tha’s fine, too. I’m no stranger to Infirmaries. Maybe she’ll find I’m dyin’ o’ some rare disease brought on buh inhalin’ too much Wand smoke! Not that anyone’s gon’ta miss me much, anyway!”

Harry smiled and shook his head, looking out the great arched window. The sunrise held all the promise of a beautiful day, and Seamus didn’t want any part of it. The sky was clear and deep blue where the sun hadn’t yet touched it, perfect flying weather for Broomstick practice, Quidditch practice, or simply joyriding. Perhaps, Harry thought, he could get Seamus to with him. A warm breeze blew through the window, and Harry could hear Hagrid off in the distance taking Fluffy out for his morning walk in the Forest. Try as he did, though, Harry couldn’t help but laugh. “It’s Saturday, you know,” he giggled.

Seamus sat up and looked out the window at the glorious flaming sunrise. He looked back at Harry’s smiling face, down at the wet spot on his bed, and back to the wilted geranium. All of its red petals had fallen from the long bloom spike, and there was only one green leaf left on it, near the bottom. He then looked over at the stack of books on his nightstand, upon which sat his Wand, and sniffled. Seamus watched as Harry scooted over a bit closer. His face turned beet red, and he genuinely wished that severe embarrassment were fatal. Of course, it was just like his that when someone finally noticed him, it had been on a morning that he’d wet the bed. His confused emotions then overwhelmed him, and he stared to cry again.

Totally perplexed as to how anyone could be so upset over something as trivial as the death of a flower, Harry did the only thing that he knew to do. Granted, he didn’t know Seamus that well, and he wasn’t sure how he’d take it, but he had to do something for the boy. He leaned over a bit closer until he was right next to the smaller boy and hugged him. “Come now, Seamus, it cahn’t be that bad, now, can it?” He was completely unprepared for what happened next.

Instead of pulling himself out of it or arguing, Seamus collapsed into his arms and buried his head in Harry’s right shoulder. He held him for a while, as the smaller boy sobbed as if his heart were breaking. The sun was now fully up, filling the small two-bed dorm room with its golden light. The dying geranium on the windowsill cast a shadow in that light, and it was the shadow falling over Harry’s leg that got his attention. As Seamus’ tears soaked his bare shoulder, Harry turned towards the flower and crooked a finger at it. He mouthed the levitation spell again, and the flowerpot obediently floated over to his outstretched hand. He grasped it carefully, still holding Seamus with his left arm, and trying not to put too much pressure on the scar that the flying key had left him. He thought back to how he’d caught the old clunky-looking key in their quest for The Stone, and of the smaller one that had torn his hand open on the flight back down. It still stung a bit, and he noticed, as he held the crying boy, that his lightning bolt scar above his right eye was beginning to burn.

THAT put him on the alert. His scar only burned and hurt in times of danger, sort of as a warning that something monumental was about to happen. He thought about it, but found he didn’t have a free hand to reach up and touch it with. “Seamus,” he whispered, gently shaking the smaller boy, “Look.”

Seamus wiped at his eyes and pulled away, his face red from crying and humiliation. Tenderly, he took the flower from Harry and just stared at it. “Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?” Harry asked, “Because if you don’t, I mean, that’s alright too.” Harry, however, really wanted to know. Never mind the fact that his upper body was wet from Seamus’ tears, and his left leg had become wet from the other boy’s urine-soaked nightshirt. “Lots of boys wet the bed, you know, and perhaps Madam Hooch will have a potion or something for the flower. She gardens, you know.”

“I … I h-hate it here,” Seamus stammered, almost as if saying such a thing might bring down the roof or something. In a school so large and full of things like moving pictures and shifting staircases, he wouldn’t have been surprised.

“But why?” Harry asked, totally taken aback. “I love it here! Compared to my life as a Muggle, this is Heaven!”

“That’s because you’re YOU!” Seamus retorted with uncharacteristic heat, clutching his dying flower closely to his breast. “YOU’RE Harry Potter, the boy who lived! And all I am is Seamus Finnegan, half-breed, puny little mudblood who can’t do anythin’ without settin’ it on fire! You’re the one everyone knows about, and I’m the one that no one even knows exists! Blimey, they wouldn’a ‘ad to a-worried if I’d found The Sorcerer’s Stone, I’da pro’ly blown ‘er to bits if I’da touched it!”

Harry leaned back, his scar burning and throbbing. He realized that he was very close to getting something important out of Seamus, although he didn’t understand what or why. He only sensed that he HAD to get it out of him. So he sat there, and although Seamus’ words stung him to the quick, he listened, took it, and didn’t say a thing back.

“You’re the big hero, they say, took on Voldemort twice now and lived to tell about it! Youngest Seeker in a century, First Year, on the House Quidditch Team, too. Helped Ron bring down a bloody Troll in the girl’s loo, got The Stone, even ‘ad Hagrid come and get ya personally and take ya shoppin’ at Diagon Alley! Why do some people get to have so much goin’ on and get so popular and be so bloomin’ …,” but words failed him as he stared at his flower again. He sniffled, swallowed hard, and finally said, “When I can’t e’en keep a bloody flower alive.”

Harry’s scar felt as if it were on fire, and suddenly he noticed something else. He looked down and small the front of his boxers tented out. He was almost twelve years old, well, eleven and a half, and while he hadn’t hit puberty yet, his small organ throbbed and twitched in time with his pulse. It was also burning, much like his lightning bolt scar on his forehead. He blushed. “Morning piss hard-on,” he mused. Seamus smirked at him.
“Least you got one,” he snapped.

“What?” Harry asked, confused. He’d thought that all boys woke up with erections in the morning, if nothing else, simply to make the morning piss all the more difficult. Of course he knew what his genitals were for, about the so-called “birds and bees,” or in their case at Hogwart’s, “dragons and faeries” as some referred to it. He was just about to ask Seamus again what he’d meant by his last comment about having one when the younger boy said, “I can’t e’en wake up right.”

Something clicked over in Harry’s mind then, and he shifted to try and hide his almost painful erection. He didn’t really understand why he had one, at that time, but he tried to ignore it. “How did you kill it?” He asked, still wondering why a flower was so important to Seamus. It seemed to Harry if the boy had just lost the last thing in his life that mattered to him.

“I woke up early, the sun was in me eyes, and I swore,” Seamus replied. “I guess the poor thing was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“But that’s not all, is it?” Harry pressed.

Seamus shook his head. There were a LOT of things bothering him, and he sighed heavily. Then he opened up, telling Harry all about his parents and how things were going to change at home, his own ineptitude at Magic, the taunts from Malfoy and the others, his bad grades, and even his own fear that he was actually going to do himself serious harm with his own Wand. “I cann’a believe the Wand chose ME,” he moaned, absently scratching at his damp crotch. “All that, and tuh top it all off, I’m a bedwetter. I can’t e’en get anyone to share a bloody room with me,” he stated, pointing at the empty bed.

He nudged his glasses back up onto his nose and realized that he hadn’t even been aware that there was a spare bed in Seamus’ room. “That’s because we don’t have a full House this term,” Harry explained. “It not because of … well … anyone thinking it’s dangerous to sleep in the same room with you!” Although given Seamus’ track record, the thought of the younger boy having a bad dream and grabbing his Wand in his sleep frightened him.

Seamus’ temper had been roused again, however. “Tha’s easy fer YOU to say! You share a room with Ron Weasley, and you and him and Hermione are thicker than thieves, and prob’ly twice as crooked! Look at all the points you three’v lost Gryffindor already! The term’s almost up, and we’re behind! Hell, even Hufflepuff’s ahead ‘o us! You’re always jokin’ and chattin’ and walkin’ together, hell, e’en Neville gets on with you well, and I dinna think anyone could stand ‘im! Not dangerous, ya say? Watch this!”

Harry jumped up off of the bed and watched in wonder as Seamus picked up his Wand. A breeze blew through the window, and Harry’s scar burned again and he chilled all over. Goosebumps stood up on his bare skin, and the tiny white hairs here and there on his prepubescent body stood up. Seamus aimed the Wand out the window. Harry jumped back as Seamus moved his lips, tried again, and then uttered a foul curse. A fireball shot from the end of his Wand. It arched up into the sky and exploded, shaking the whole forest underneath of it. Birds screeched and took flight, and Fluffy howled over at Hagrid’s Hut – in three part harmony, no less.

Harry blinked. “What was that all about?” he asked.

“Come back ‘eer, ya worthless flea-bitten cur!” They heard Hagrid shout from below. Both boys heard a terrible screech, then a hiss and spat, and looked down to see Fang, Hagrid’s large black boarhound, chasing Mrs. Norris – Filch’s cat – across the center quad. Hagrid, however, had his hands full of Fluffy, and Fluffy seemed quite interested in giving chase as well.

“I was trying to close the window,” Seamus muttered, gently setting his flower back on the sill. “It dint work an’ I got angry. I get angry a lot.”

“Good idea,” Harry agreed, closing the window so as not to bear witness to what he hoped was going to happen to the cat. “But that burst of energy, it was … it was amazing!” Harry replied, shocked at its veracity and noise. He watched as Seamus sat his smoking Wand back on his pile of books. Harry fondled his own wand and said, “I don’t think I could launch one of those if I had to!”

“What else is gonna go wrong already this mornin’?” Seamus asked, turning his back and stripping off his wet nightshirt. “I’m gon’ go git a shower ‘for e’erywun else shows up. I don’ think ya wanna stand around wi’ someone in a wet gown.”

Harry gasped, and his erection began to throb harder and ache as Seamus’ bare ass stared him in the face. Of course he’d seen other boys naked before – the Gryffindor showers were communal – but he’d never felt like he did at that moment as he watched the smaller boy cross the room. He stared at how his cheeks moved back and forth, how the muscles in his thighs moved, and the slight spring that Seamus seemed to have in his step. Harry noticed then, for the first time, that the boy walked as if something were wrong with him; he just wasn’t sure what, so as he thought about it, he just stared and wondered at the pulsing erection in his boxers. The smaller boy walked away to his bureau, pulled out a towel with a House crest on it, and wrapped it about his middle. He turned back around to find Harry blatantly staring at him.

“What, Potter, ya ne’er seen a white arse before?” he asked, “Or ya see somethin’ ya like? Not a poof, ‘r ya?”

Harry flushed, realizing that he was breathing heavily. Seamus’ earlier onslaught had been almost all he could handle. He’d said some things that had hurt, but that one had done it. True, he was the boy who had lived. He was sort of a celebrity, although some people – such as Professor Snape – didn’t like him at all. He also had a talent for getting himself, and his friends, into trouble. He had also cost their House almost as many points with their misadventures as he’d earned for it by winning all of his Quidditch matches. Still, he didn’t feel that he had deserved the tongue-lashing that Seamus had given him over a silly little flower, and that last insult. “That hurt,” he said softly, heading over towards the windowsill and leaning upon it. He sighed.

Seamus didn’t reply.

And although Harry Potter was the type of boy who wouldn’t have said ‘shit’ even if he’d had a mouthful of it, he felt that Seamus needed to be put back in line.“You told me about your parents, how they might be breaking up,” Harry began. “Well lemme tell you this, Seamus Finnegan: I’d give anything to have my parents divorced, because if they were split up, they’d still be alive! If they’d been fightin’, like yer mum and dad, they’da not both been there when Voldemort showed up! You think you’re the only boy who has to cope with that? There’s probably a good half of the kids here at Hogwart’s that come from broken homes! And they’re both still alive, so get over it! And as for me, I can’t help who I am! You have no idea what kind of life I had before I came here! I grew up alone in a cupboard under the stairs with no friends and a sadistic, spoiled cousin for my only company. How could anyone just ignore a little boy like that, all those years?

“You tell me about how you can’t do anything right, and how it bothers you that you got a room all alone? You think I like listening to Ron snore? Hell, some nights I have to go and have Percy cast a ‘stone deaf’ spell on me so I can sleep! An’ if it weren’t for Hermione, Voldemort prol’y woulda got The Stone because I can’t even unlock a friggin’ door without Hermione’s help! And you think you can just go off on me, when I come to see what the hell’s wrong in here when I hear ya wakin’ up crying? I don’t know what’s wrong with you, Seamus, I really don’t. I just wanted to try and help you and make you feel better, but it looks like you’re too far gone in your own self-pity for that! Jesus, man, wettin’ the bed isn’t the end of the world. If nothing else, get some Goodnights diapers or something or see if Madam Pomfrey can fix it!” Harry vented.

Seamus hung his head and dropped his shower kit.

“Oh and don’t think that cryin’ again is gonna fix it, either,” Harry retorted, angry at his gesture of friendship having been turned back at him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so angry. Well, he could, actually – the last time he’d seen Draco Malfoy. But then again, he was always angry when he saw Malfoy. The perfect little Slytherin rich-boy pureblood had that general effect on people.

“Please don’ say ‘fix’, Harry,” Seamus said in a small voice.

“What?” Harry asked, confused that the shouting match seemed to be over so soon. He was very skilled in arguing, largely thanks to Malfoy, and he wasn’t used to verbal fights that ended so quickly. He raised an eyebrow, and his scar began to burn again as he stared at the towel-clad Seamus who was looking out the window again. His eyes looked haunted, lost. Harry stared into those eyes, and found that he recognized them. Seamus’ were brown, and his own were green, but Harry knew that he had seen those eyes – that look – many, many times before.

He’d seen them in the Mirror of Erised.

He thought of how many nights he’d spent, using his invisibility cloak to sneak down to the chamber where the Mirror was kept. He thought of how he’d sat and just stared at the glass that showed him the deepest, most desperate desire of his own heart, and how Professor Dumbledore had told him that many a man had gone mad, even died, wasting away in front of a Mirror that showed them neither Truth nor Knowledge.

Harry thought of his parents, and he came to back to his senses standing at the window with Seamus next to him. He felt a small, warm hand slip into his own, and his green eyes met with Seamus’ brown ones to stare down at the all but dead geranium. Suddenly, the whole morning flashed back through his mind as his scar burned and tingled, and he looked at Seamus, who looked back at him. Harry then realized that he didn’t know the Irish lad all that well, and the reason that he so liked hearing his thick accent was because the boy seldom spoke.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Seamus offered shyly. “I don’t wanna lose me parents. I’ve ne’er been alone or ignored, that is, ‘til I got here, and I don’t wanna go home to that. My da’s afraid of ‘us’, ya know, and what if he … what if he dumps me? What if I flunk out of Hogwart’s? What have I got t’ go back t’?”

Finally, Harry’s own tears spilled down over his face. A few of them splattered on the seemingly dead flower, as did Seamus’ as well. “I hope you never have to find out,” Harry told him, holding his warm little hand tightly and pulling him closer. Harry suddenly felt the need to be held. It was not something that he was familiar with, having had no affection as a child growing up with the Dursleys. They stood there, holding one another and crying for a bit, as the sun rose a bit higher. Finally, Harry spoke up again. “When I’m upset, I like to sit in the window and just stare out of it,” he offered, climbing up and pulling Seamus along with him.

“I’ve never been alone,” Seamus repeated, snuggling up against Harry and firmly holding his towel in place. Harry wrinkled his nose, deciding that Seamus didn’t smell THAT bad and that a shower could probably wait a bit.

“I’ve always been alone,” Harry replied.

As they situated themselves on the sill together and just stared out over the Dark Forest, still dark despite the morning sunlight, Harry sniffed, and then sneezed. A strange odor was tickling his nose, and his scar was no longer burning. It only tingled a bit, as did the rest of his body. He wasn’t sure what he was feeling, holding the smaller boy at his side and letting him rest his sandy head on his shoulder again. It felt good, but it also made him feel strange inside. It felt almost like what had happened in the abandoned dungeons far below Hogwart’s, when Professor Quirrell had touched him and turned to stone. He had tingled all over when that had happened, in much the same way. He wondered if it were something like having a little brother, and for the first time in his life, Harry Potter sensed a great void in his Soul.

Then, very carefully, Seamus reached up a trembling hand and pointed to Harry’s forehead. He said nothing, but instead brushed the long bangs back away and tenderly ran his finger along the lines of the wicked scar. Harry gasped, but hugged Seamus a bit tighter, rubbing his hand up and down his smooth back and leaning his head over so that his cheek rested on top of the smaller boy’s head. He couldn’t recall if anyone had ever touched him there before, but it felt strange and not at all unpleasant. Seamus’ touch seemed to relieve the tingling and burning somewhat, and Harry said nothing.

He glanced down at the quad to see Mrs. Norris heading for a tree, with Fang and Fluffy close behind her. Hot on their heels came Hagrid, swearing sulfurously and waving his pink umbrella as he ran. Harry grinned and ran a hand over Seamus’ head, feeling a patch in the bad that was badly singed. Maybe if he got a short flat-top cut like that one boy in Ravenclaw House, he wouldn’t be able to burn it so badly, Harry thought, embarrassed to realize that he had an erection, still, and that it was probably poking Seamus in the small of his back.

Sitting there holding Seamus in the window, drenched in the warm sunlight and as confused as he’d ever been, Harry Potter realized that he needed this moment; he needed it almost as badly as he thought the smaller boy needed it. On impulse, he hugged him, and Seamus didn’t resist. His eyes were closed, and he was leaned back against Harry’s bare chest. He didn’t seem to be resisting it, in fact, he seemed very comforted by it. They both did. Seamus sighed in contentment. Then Harry sneezed again.

“What IS that smell?” he asked in irritation.Suddenly Seamus sniffed and then gasped, and his hand shot down to the flowerpot. He picked it up, and his smile almost drove the sunlight from the room. “It’s alive! Harry, how did you do it? It’s alive again!”

“Do what?” Harry asked, “What’s alive?”

There, in his small hand, Seamus held his Auntie’s geranium. It was in full bloom, its blossoms as red as blood and its stem thick and green and covered in rich smelling leaves. Harry saw that the leaves were wet, spotted here and there. Seamus was almost crying tears of joy, and suddenly it clicked over in Harry’s mind.

Standing there by the window, pouring their emotions out upon one another, the two little Wizards had watered the sickly little flower with their tears. It had sat next to them in the warm sunshine while they held each other, each one nursing his own hurts and fears and feeling genuinely sorry for the hurtful things he’d said to the other. Somehow, together, they’d brought the geranium back to life.

“I’ve ne’er heard tell ‘o such a thing,” Seamus marveled. “I mean, after I …”

But Harry moved a finger up to his lips and touched them, shushing him. Harry smiled at the younger boy, wondering at the confused welter of emotions that he was feeling. He stared at the plant, he stared at Seamus, and then he stared down at his wounded hand for a bit. He was tingling all over again, and his scar tingled, it seemed, in time with his embarrassing erection that had returned with a painful vengeance. Seamus said nothing, too caught up in the still-growing and madly blooming flower. When he finally looked up at him, Harry leaned over and gently kissed his forehead. Seamus flushed, and Harry began to feel as if he were going to wet his boxers. Still, they both stared back and forth at the plant, and each other, for a good long while. Neither said a word; they simply sat there in a warm embrace as the flower’s blooms turned from blood red to pink to white then back again.

Finally, there came a knock at the door and both of them jumped up. “Come in,” Seamus called out.

Ron Weasley, his red hair a flaming mess atop his freckled face, stepped in with a towel about his neck upon which was perched Scabbers, the rat. He was wearing a pair of boxers just like Harry’s, and he was holding his shower bag. He looked at the two boys by the window, and Harry sneezed again. Ron then noticed the geranium. He sighed and took a large bite off a red licorice rops that he was carrying in his free hand.

“Isn’t it a bit early for herbalogy, and on a Saturday morning?” he asked.

“Seamus was just talking about a shower too,” Harry offered, “Think I’ll join you.”

“Uh, I’ll be along in a bit,” Seamus offered, “I need to clean up in here first.”

Harry looked over at Seamus, then back at Ron. Ron shrugged and looked around. He sniffed. “Why do I smell smoke?” he asked, “And did something explode this morning?”

Seamus shot him a cold look and began stripping his bed. He had his towel tied securely about his waist, and when he had placed his dirty laundry in the hamper, he saw that Harry and Ron were still there. Harry was showing Ron the resurrected flower with its multi-colored blooms. “My mum grows these things all over the yard,” Ron was saying. “I do kinda like the smell. Sort of a dreamy type ‘o smell, ya know. I’ve ne’er seen one shift color though, Harry. How’d he do that to it?”

“It makes me sneeze,” Harry replied, dodging the issue and glancing over at Seamus, whose face was red. The scent of the geranium was strong enough, obviously, to hide the scent that gave evidence to the fact that Seamus was a bedwetter. Besides, he didn’t actually want to tell Ron that he’d spent the better part of his Saturday morning cuddling with another boy in the windowsill.

“Well, let’s be off then,” Ron said, heading back to the door with Harry in tow. “Coming, Finnegan?”

“In a bit,” the smaller boy replied. “I should really go and …”

But Harry interrupted him. “Oh, c’mon, it’s just water. You won’t melt,” he offered, taking Seamus by the upper arm and pulling him towards the door.

That’s what you think, Seamus thought, his face reddening deeper. He walked a bit behind Harry and Ron, hoping to slip away unnoticed, but he never got the chance. Harry and Ron chatted about this and that as the followed the narrow corridor down to the showers, turning back now and then and pulling Seamus up along with them when he fell behind. Fine time for them to want to talk to me, he grumbled silently.

The Gryffindor shower room was a large tiled room with a floor drain in the center and smooth stone benches around the walls. There were a dozen showerheads, and no dividers. At the entrance were several hooks in the stone wall to hang things upon while getting wet. Harry and Ron promptly stripped naked and took their shower kits in. They turned on the hot water, filling the room with steam. Seamus hung back a bit, watching them with his face flaming. Harry, however, came back out almost as soon as he’d went in. “Set those on a bench, please” he asked, handing his glasses to Seamus. “I do that every time!”

Seamus put Harry’s specs on the bench under where his Quidditch printed boxers hung on the peg. He held his own towel firmly about his slim waist, watching Harry and Ron lather up. Neither boy was really that far into puberty yet, although Ron claimed that he was beginning to sprout some pubic hair. Closer inspection upon Harry’s part, however, even without his glasses, dismissed the redhead’s claim to being only fuzz and wishful thinking. Still, Seamus stared jealously at them.

“It IS a hair,” Ron was saying.
“It’s lint,” Harry countered, stepping back quickly as Ron made a motion as if he were going to punch his friend in the balls.

Harry laughed. “I suppose now you’ll be tellin’ me how you got lucky with Emily Dixon from Hufflepuff House out behind Hagrid’s woodpile the other day?”

Ron flushed. “Screw you!” he swore, still smiling despite himself. In all actuality, Emily had turned him down flat, citing that she preferred Slytherin men.

Seamus watched, wishing that he were included in their banter. But, as usual, he’d been overlooked again. He sighed, and then seeing Harry’s glasses on the bench, he picked them up and on impulse, put them on. His eyes began to water immediately, and everything seemed to zoom up until it was right at the end of his nose! Everything was extremely clear and had razor sharp edges, but he couldn’t stand it. The glasses gave him a headache, and he was thankful that he didn’t have to wear the heavy things on his face as Harry did every day. He took them off and looked back into the showers.

Scabbers the rat crawled out of Ron’s towel and wandered up to the discarded glasses. He nibbled at the earpiece, and Seamus watched him for a bit, magnified by the thick lenses. His nose twitched this and that, and when the lazy rat gnawed at the black frames, he squeaked and jumped back. His nose had turned yellow.

Seamus laughed, remembering how Ron had tried over and over to turn his fat rat yellow.

But it wasn’t the fact that they were friends, and best friends at that. Everyone at Hogwart’s knew it, having seen the altercation between Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy right before the ordeal with the Sorting Hat. Malfoy had offered his friendship, conceitedly, slandering Ron and the entire Weasley clan in the process. Harry had graciously refused him, insinuating that if being a friend to Draco meant not being a friend to Ron, then he wanted NO part of it.

No, it wasn’t that at all, Seamus knew, as he watched Ron lather up his own developing boyhood. Unlike Harry, Ron had begun to just lose that paunchy boyish look around the edges. He was developing musculature, a bit, and he’d lost the last bits of fat here and there that little boys seem to have. Upon closer inspection, he saw that Harry probably wasn’t far behind his best friend. They were inevitably going to grow up, and the small Irish lad wondered how, or if, he ever would. Seamus sighed.

He hadn’t seen all that many boys naked, only a few of his fellow Gryffindors leaving the showers as he was going in. He always showered alone. Besides, he wasn’t sure of what he was feeling, nor why. It wasn’t supposed to turn out like this, they’d told him, but yet it seemed to be doing just that. He thought back to his morning in the window, almost going back to sleep in Harry’s lap. It seemed like years ago that it had happened, and Seamus wondered WHY it had happened at all. I wonder if they’d kick us out of here if they knew about that, he thought, watching Harry and Ron having a good time and wasting hot water.

Not only did Seamus shower alone, he had his own room. He did his homework alone. He ate alone, even though he sat at the common table in the Great Hall unnoticed by everyone else. He seldom spoke, and no one – Harry and Ron included – spoke to him that much. That was why he’d been so surprised to find Harry Potter at his bedside that morning when he’d slipped – again – and let go of his Powers. But he’d never been alone until he’d come to Hogwart’s.

He thought of his parents again, and his own fears for his father and how he was going to treat him when and if he finished his First Year of school there. As Harry and Ron soaped up still more, flicking suds at one another and making off-color cracks about each other’s manhood, Seamus shivered. For one morning in his time at the school, he’d not been alone; Harry had come to his side to see what was wrong. Why did he do it, and what did I do in return? I attacked him, Seamus thought to himself. I hurt him. And yet he held me. He tried to make me feel better. He kissed me! He even let me touch his scar!

Seamus sat down heavily upon the bench and sighed. They’d dragged him down here, and now he didn’t have much choice. There wasn’t going to be any way to explain himself if he didn’t shower with them. He still felt confused and strange about that morning’s happenings. He wasn’t sure which confused him more – the rebirth of his flower or the strange feelings that he got when Harry held him. And then he’d made the comment about being a poof when Harry was staring at him.

But weren’t you staring at him too, standing there in those tight boxers of his? Seamus asked himself. He agreed that he was. But the time they’d spent in the windowsill, just staring out into the sky, had been so nice. Seamus thought that if there was any amount of happiness to be had at Hogwart’s, then it would be spending his time with Harry Potter.

His thoughts were cut short, however, by the increasingly loud laughter and remarks from Ron and Harry as they showered. Seamus glanced around the corner and cringed. Neither Ron nor Harry was circumcised, and each of them – aside from a tiny bit of fuzz – were still hairless. Both of them had their balls hanging down a bit, their scrotums loosened by the steaming hot water. Their genitals had turned a slight shade of red, and Seamus was sure that his face was much redder. It seemed that Ron’s penis was about a half an inch bigger than Harry’s, and Seamus realized that he was staring again.

I’m staring at Harry again, he chided himself. But wasn’t he starin’ at me, starin’ at me arse, earlier? And why do I feel so strange? Why did I feel like I did when I could feel his erection poke my back when we were sitting in the windowsill? It wasn’t supposed to be like this. They said I wouldn’t think like this, that I’d be different from all the other Boy Wizards. Well, I guess they were right, Seamus bemoaned in silence.

“Hey, Finnegan,” Ron called out, “You coming in or not?”

“I said you won’t melt,” Harry promised in a coaxing voice.

Seamus took another look and saw that Ron had shampooed his hair and his face was full of lather. His eyes were closed, and he wasn’t sure how bad Harry’s eyesight was without his glasses on. The smaller boy stood up, sighed, and gathered all of his nerve. Very deliberately, he let his towel fall to the floor and walked naked into the shower with his soap. He picked a showerhead about three heads over from Ron and Harry and turned it on and began to lather. He covered himself in suds very quickly, scrubbing with efficiency and not to be having fun as the other two were doing. He kept himself turned sideways as well.

“I’m tellin’ ya, Harry, it’s a good four inches,” Ron was saying, wiping at his eyes.

“It is NOT! You’re the one who needs glasses if you think that little thing’s four inches long!” Harry retorted, pointing at Ron’s semi-erect penis.

“Well it’s bigger than yours!” Ron retorted, “Admit it!”

But Harry was laughing again, squinting at him and lathering up his black hair. “See, I told ya, ya didn’t melt, Seamus!” It was obvious that Harry was VERY nearsighted.

Seamus managed to smile at him and nodded. He washed himself as he always did, taking the opportunity to pee while he was in the shower and no one could notice. He liked peeing while standing up. He always had.

After a few minutes, when he was feeling clean and somewhat better, Seamus turned to leave. Harry and Ron seemed to be having fun, throwing soap at one another and making rude comments about each other’s inadequacies in the genital department. Although he liked the camaraderie, Seamus couldn’t stand it. Once again, he’d become invisible without even trying. He didn’t know why he’d even worried, or taken such pains to hide himself from everyone in the showers. No one noticed him. They never did, they never would. He sighed and turned off his water.

About then, a huge glob of soap that had to have been Magically assisted hit him square in the side of the head. He’d just reached the door to the shower room, and suddenly found himself covered in soap again. Without thinking, he spun around to face his assailant and to return fire. They were both laughing, having such a good time with their insults and jeers. The glob of soap to the head had momentarily made Seamus feel welcome, not overlooked, and he’d instinctively jumped at the chance.

As he spun around, Ron was making a comment about shoving his Wand up Harry’s arse when he stopped in mid-sentence. Seamus, realizing what he’d just done, froze as if Ron had just said, “Petrificus Totalis.” It was not Magic, but fear, that held Seamus frozen in place.

“What?” Harry asked, squinting at Ron, then at Seamus. Ron, however, gasped and swallowed hard.

No one said a word. The only sound was the running water. Seamus began to shiver, despite all the steam.

“What’s wrong?” Harry asked again, unable to see that far without his glasses.

“Gl-glasses, H-harry,” Ron stuttered.

“Oh, bother,” Harry muttered, gingerly stepping around to the door and fetching his specks. He put them back on, adjusted them, and shrugged at Ron, holding his hands up and out in question. He was standing BEHIND Seamus, still near the doorway. “What? Fluffy go running by or something? Troll? Dragon? Ghost?”

Ron shook his red head, his soaked hair dripping. Harry saw that his friend was sporting an erection, and it was very hard and throbbing. It was also a good four inches, just as Ron had said. He stared for a bit. “OK, so you were right,” Harry admitted, “It IS bigger than mine.”

Ron, however, raised his hand slowly and pointed at Seamus, who was standing infront of Harry. The smaller boy hadn’t moved, as if trying by force of Will to vanish into the stones. In fact, it had almost worked - again. “S-s-seamus,” Ron whispered, still pointing.

“Didn’t Hermione tell you it’s rude to point?” Harry asked, turning around. He saw Seamus standing there, took a step, and started to reach out with the intention of putting his arm about the younger boy’s shoulders and dragging him back into the fray. Then he saw that something was wrong.

Seamus’ face was flaming, up to his ears, which were beet red. He stood there, solid, as if dripping dry and just waiting. Harry saw that his eyes were filling again, and his own green eyes moved down from Seamus’ face to his crotch, he understood why. Harry took a moment to digest it, his eyes relaying the impossible information to his brain. When it clicked into place, he gasped and stopped in mid-stride. He pushed his glasses back up, and they slid down the wet bridge of his nose again. He bent down for a closer look, fascinated.

Where Seamus’ boyhood should have been, there was simply nothing but smooth skin. The Irish lad had no penis, nor did he have any evidence between his legs that he’d ever been an intact boy. There wasn’t even a visible hole where his penis should have been, and not a hair on his smooth, young body anywhere. There was only a strange, and very small mark off to the side of where the thin scar had formed that had closed his wound. It looked like a small tattoo of some kind, in the shape of a long and vertical Mobius strip.

Harry glanced over at Ron, who still had a pounding erection. He also found that he was getting one as well, and it tingled and throbbed just as it had earlier that morning. He didn’t understand it, it embarrassed him, but not so badly because Ron was in the same shape.

No one said a word. It took a moment, but Ron finally snapped out of it and turned the water off. Slowly, he made his way over to Seamus and Harry.

“Holy crickets, Seamus, you’re a … you’re a eunuch!” Ron stated in shock.

“Eunuch?” Harry asked, puzzled. He’d not heard that word before.

“A man or boy with no balls, or no nothin’ fer that matter,” Ron explained. “They used to do that, cut it off, a long time ago so that they could guard harems, sing opera, or do other jobs so that the men‘ud be no threat to the women folk.”

Harry stood back up, his mouth agape. “Cut it OFF? But that’s just … cruel!” He exclaimed, looking back at Seamus in wonder as his scar burned anew.

Seamus nodded, averting his eyes. “Now you know,” he mumbled, turning to leave.

But a warm hand on his damp shoulder stopped him. As soon as that hand touched him, Seamus froze. He didn’t know what to expect. He’d assumed that if anyone found out about him and his emasculated state, especially the other boys, that he’d be mercilessly tormented about it and made fun of. Had someone like Malfoy or one of his Slytherin thugs like Goyle found him out, his fears would no doubt have come to life. Instead of Malfoy, however, Seamus found himself staring into a set of sparkling green eyes behind a set of black, round glasses. And in that gaze, he saw no shame, no hatred, no loathing. What he saw was an aching Void, much like the one he often felt in himself. At the edges of that Void, he saw also Love, compassion, and a terrible Loss. He held it for a long time, lost in the depths of those sparkling green eyes.

Then Ron coughed nervously.

Seamus quickly turned his head away, but when he looked up, he saw Ron offering him his towel. He glanced down at Ron’s pounding erection jealously, but took the towel and forced a smile. “Thank you,” he said, wrapping it about his slim waist and heading out to sit down on the bench.

Harry and Ron sat down, wrapped in towels as well, on either side of him. Neither said anything. Scabbers the rat crawled over onto Seamus’ leg and sat up. The small boy picked him up, and Scabbers licked his nose.

“I think he likes you,” Ron observed.

Seamus sighed. “I s’pose ya wanna know why I got nothin’ down there like boys should ‘av,” he said, his slight body trembling.

“Not if you don’t wanna tell us,” Harry replied, putting an arm around Seamus’ shoulder and pulling him close.

“Yea, it’s not like it’s really any of OUR business,” Ron agreed, then hesitated, “But…”

”Ron!” Harry snapped.

“Sorry,” Ron apologized.

“It’s OK, Harry, really. I guess I don’ hafta live in fear ‘o someone findin’ out now. Wasn’t as bad as I thought it’d be, ya know. Thanks,” Seamus replied, and Harry smiled at him. Then he sighed again and set to drying himself off. Ron and Harry looked away.

“Last year, when I turned ten,” Seamus began, “I started to show signs that I might be a Wizard. You know, the usual stuff that you can’t explain, things movin’ around, er disappearin’. Me mum, bein’ a witch an’ all, come out and told me da’ the truth. ‘E dint take it very well,” the Irish lad explained, his accent seeming to grow thicker as he went on.

When Seamus paused, dried off but left with only a wet towel, Harry pulled him close and patted his arm. “I’ll watch the door,” Ron offered, also dry and back in his Gryffindor boxers with damp towel about his neck. His erection, however, hadn’t gone down a bit.

Seamus watched him, and Harry gently ran a finger along his thin eyebrow, smiling. “They’re almost all the way grown back in again, ya know.”

The Irish lad smiled back at him and nodded. “Right after da’ left, mum has Auntie take me to Diagon Alley. The first thing she wanted to do was to ‘av me Wand choose me. So when we get to Ollivander’s, the man behind the counter just looks at me an’ shakes ‘is head like he’s sad t’ see me. ‘E pulls out one Wand, and says sometin’ like, ‘Ash, combination red ‘n black, seven inches. Carved with Klingsor’s Knife from the Tree of Life Itself, Seamus. Very, very powerful, for a very, very powerful Wizard.’
Then he hands it t’ me, an’ it got real cold in ‘der an’ a breeze blows through. ‘Den all this odd light starts shinin’ outta the Wand, an’ I swear, Harry, I’m not lyin’, the Wand starts drippin’ blood on me hand! Him and Auntie, well, they jus’ look a’ me like I’m Vold-,” then Seamus paused.

Ron was still at the door, listening, watching. Harry was still sitting beside him, holding him by the shoulders. His touch was warm, and somehow, Seamus felt safe in those arms. He’d started to say “Voldemort,” but had stopped. But hadn’t Voldemort already tried to kill Harry, twice, and failed?! Hadn’t Harry beaten the most feared Bad Wizard in the world, and only having been in diapers when he’d done it?

“So what’s the object in yer Wand?” Ron asked. “Like Harry’s phoenix feather, ya know.”

Seamus shook his head. “I dinno. He dint tell me. Just said it was easy to overlook, often ignored, not missed ‘til it was gone. Then he told me t’ wave it, an’ when I did, it was like e’rythin’ just stopped movin’! It felt like hours before I come back to meself, and when I did, the windows in the front all blew out and ha’f the pavin’ stones in the street tore up and flew off here ‘n there. Mus’ be bad, tho’, cause e’ry time I use it, I catch meself on fire!”

“We noticed,” Ron replied, “It’s like that Wand is too much gun for the bird yer shootin’ at, you know? Blows ‘er to bits! Poof, nothin’ but feathers left!”

“That’s what I was thinking this morning,” Harry agreed, “When you tried to close the window. It’s so powerful! But what I don’t understand is, well, that scar on your groin, and WHY did they do this to you, Seamus?” Harry asked, his voice full of pain.

Seamus shrugged. “T’ain’t a scar, Harry. Tis a birthmark. Born with it, I was. Yours is a real scar, from a wound, given to you by Vold- … well, HIM – anyway … but mine come natural, born wit’ it. Anyway, mum called a doctor from here, the old man used to work wit’ Madame Pomfrey ‘for he retired. He come an’ checked me out, they talked about some stuff, and next thing I know, they’re tellin’ me I gots t’ have this surgery. Explained it all, they did. I cried for a long time. I dint want ‘em to do it t’ me, Harry. I really dint. I almost run away, but mum had some old friends, ya know. They come to the house an’ all tried to explain it to me, ‘bout the mark, how important I was an’ all. I still dint want to, though. I knew about Wizards an’ Witches and the like, but I never gave it much thought. Jus’ thought I’d be one someday and that was that! I mean, what wud YOU do, if’n someone told ya they was gon’ to slice all yer parts off?”

“I’d have run like hell!” Ron piped up.

Harry, however, was deep in thought. His scar was burning again, and he thought he heard footsteps coming. He asked Ron, but the redhead saw no one in the hallway.

“So, one night not too long after, the doctor comes t’ the house ag’in and he says tis time to do the deed. I know there wuz others there, but he gimme this strong, nasty drink that put me out cold. I remember mum holdin’ me hand, and how much I missed my da’. I could hear the ones mum said wuz comin’ ‘fore I passed out, and when I woke up, I was … well … just like ya sees me now. Cut smooth, all gone.”

“And you LET them do it to you?” Ron asked, amazed.

Seamus shook his head. “I screamed an’ cried until I passed out. I told ‘em I dint wanna be a eunuch, no matter what some old book said, birthmark or no! I told ‘em no one was gonna cut me balls off, but ya can see they did mor’n that!” Seamus replied, running a hand deliberately over his smooth crotch. “I had no idea they’d be takin’ me dick, too! But they jus’ kep’ tryin’ to tell me how important it wuz, why I had the mark, and … and …” But Seamus’ voice faltered and he looked away from Harry, embarrassed again. “They mentioned you, too, Harry.”

“Me?” Harry exclaimed, leaning back in puzzlement. “What’s I got to do with them cuttin’ yer dick off?”

“Not like dat,” Seamus explained. “The doc just sed tha’ it wuz very strange, me an’ you bein’ ‘bout the same age an’ goin’ to school ‘bout the same time. ‘E said ‘e dint understand yer scar or why ya lived, Harry, but that ‘e DID understand ME birthmark and what it ‘mint to ‘em, which is why he said I had’ta be cut.”

Harry’s brows were creased in thought as Seamus finished his tale. He trembled, imagining Hagrid coming to the lighthouse to find him and telling him, while pulling out a sharp knife, that he had to cut his balls off! Harry thought about it, thought about playing with his own member in bed at night and how good it felt. He couldn’t imagine reaching down there and not finding anything!

Yet there was something about what the old man at Ollivander’s had said that had rung a bell in his head. It was something he’d read, or something that Hermione had told him about reading; of that he was sure. He’d heard that name, Klingsor, before - somewhere. It was just too strange.

He then realized that he and Ron, and even Hermione – as tactful and outgoing as she was – had been treating Seamus badly. Well, not badly; they’d simply overlooked him.

Because they were SUPPOSED to overlook him!

Harry snapped his fingers and shouted, “Of course!”

“Of course, what?” Ron asked, “Shit, someone’s comin’!”

The boys hastily dressed, still damp, and cleaned up their things. Harry was explaining as they headed out of the shower room. “’Easy to overlook, often ignored, not missed ‘til it was gone’ – that’s why you’re so lonely and overlooked, Seamus! That’s why you’ve not got any friends. It’s not that no one likes you. It’s part of your Wand, part of You … it’s like no one is supposed to even know that you’re here!”

“But YOU noticed me, this mornin’, Harry,” Seamus pointed out, “When ye came to me room an…”

“Ah, yes,” a soft and raspy voice said from behind them as they headed out into the corridor, “Harry finally noticed you, Seamus, and I’d have been disappointed if he hadn’t. Mr. Weasley impressed me, however.”

“Professor Dumbledore!” All three of them said in unison, turning about with a gasp. Ron dropped his shower kit, and a chocolate frog hopped out of it, along with a handful of the notorious “Every Flavor Beans.” Albus Dumbledore shook his head and sighed. “Rot your teeth, Mr. Weasley, I tell you. But …,” the Professor continued, kneeling down in front of Seamus with surprising grace for one so old. He looked the towel-wrapped young eunuch up and down, patted his head, and then smiled. He reached down to the spilled Beans and picked one up, dusted it off, and popped it into his mouth. He made a face, and then smiled. “Mmm, lemon. I do so love lemons.”

Ron looked at the old man, puzzled.

“Showering with the other boys now?” Dumbledore asked of Seamus, waving his Wand at them. Small puffs of steam rose from all their wet towels, and they suddenly felt warm and dry as if they’d been hanging out in the sunshine.

“Yes, sir,” Seamus replied, his face red again.

“And do you feel better now, now that someone knows your secret?” the old man asked.

Seamus smiled and nodded while Harry and Ron looked on in amazement. “Yes, Professor, I do. I was getting awfully lonely, sir,” he almost cried.

Dumbledore stood up, without all the pops and creaks of the elderly. He rose up, gracefully, and placed a protective arm about Seamus and pulled him close. He leaned over, and to Harry and Ron’s surprise, kissed the lad’s cheek. Scabbers ran up his beard and took up residence in his hat. “I told you it would be difficult, Seamus. I told you when you were first healing up from being cut how it might be. But the Year is almost finished, and it seems that you’ve not been overlooked by these two after all.”

Then he turned to Ron and Harry. “I am placing a frightening amount of trust in you two,” Dumbledore stated, still holding the Irish lad close. "And I'm sure you all want to know just WHY Seamus is as he is. I can tell you all only this: it was not done out of cruelty, no. It was done for one reason, and that was to increase Seamus' Powers as a Wizard some million-fold."

Unconsciously, it seemed, they took a step towards one another and stood side by side. Ron nodded, and Harry said, “Sir, I think you already know how we treat our friends," he replied, amazed and now fully understanding why the smaller Irish lad had such a hard time handling his Wand. Harry had been right. Seamus was packing far too much power for a little boy to have.

Scabbers the rat squeaked in agreement.

Albus Dumbledore stared at the pride of Gryffindor House, standing there in their monogrammed boxer shorts; still half wet despite his spell, and obviously sexually aroused, even for eleven - almost twelve year olds. He sighed heavily and gently pushed Seamus towards them. “Every boy needs his friends,” he mused, “But perhaps I should send Fluffy up just in case…”

End of part 1. All characters/names ©JK Rowling, used without knowledge nor consent. Don’t tell her!