Harry Potter and the Knife of Klingsor, Part 14

Ron was staring from his Trading Card to Mr. Grimaldi and back as the old man swept his front steps off with an ancient broom.

“Tha’s ‘im, alrighty,” he observed. “Think we ought’a go and see ‘im?”

"Doesn't look too dead to me," Harry mused, remembering what the men from the Ministry of Magic had said at Ron's house.

"Probably faked it so he could retire in peace," Ron replied.

Harry thought for a moment, paid Mr. Ollivander for Darby’s Wand, fetched his poor battered Broomstick from where it had hidden, and nodded. “I don’t know what he’s got to do with it, but we’re gonna find out!” He stated, as the small bell on Ollivander’s door jingled and they stepped out into the street.

A few more shoppers had come to Diagon Alley, but there were no other children to be seen. Assorted Magical Folk browsed here and there, most of them carrying shopping bags, as the boys crossed the road. It wasn’t crowded at all, and Harry wondered if the article in the newspaper had had anything to do with that. Was everyone too afraid to bring their children out, or was everyone simply gone off for the summer holidays somewhere?

Mr. Grimaldi looked up suddenly as they stepped up under the awning of his Shoppe. “Hello, boys!” He smiled. “Out shopping early? Taking a Music Class at Hogwart’s, I dare to hope?” He greeted them in voice that sounded like a little boy who was hoarse with a bad cold. He also had a slight Italian accent that made Harry think of a movie he’d seen once about Italian gangsters.

Ron laughed. “’Arry cahn’t carry a tune, sir, unless you’ve got a really big bucket!”

Harry smacked him in the back of the head. “Shut up! I heard YOU singing in the shower, ya know. Scared the ghoul outta the attic, it did!”

They all laughed and the plump old man ushered them in, smiling and shaking his head of gray curls.

“Don’t get many boys in here these days,” he told them in a sad voice, as some bit of music played through the Shoppe from a hidden source. “Most times, they come in looking for Muggle Music. Awful stuff, some of those Muggle bands. Just got a special order delivered, in fact. A boy came and picked it up yesterday, and now here you are.”

“What was it?” Darby asked, being more familiar with Muggle music and pop radio stations than Harry or Ron. Grimaldi smiled at him.

“First Year, aren’t you?” He asked, looking Darby over carefully.

“Is it THAT obvious?” The boy complained, to Harry and Ron. They nodded, grinning at him.

“Oh, it was ghastly,” Grimaldi told them, “The Last Temptation of Alice Cooper. Sounds like cats being flayed alive!”

“Alice Cooper? Who’s she?” Ron asked, rooting through a bin labeled “Muggle Music of the 80’s”.

“It’s a HE,” Grimaldi replied, laughing. Harry didn’t get it, but Darby did.

“I thought he was dead,” the little boy replied. “He hasn’t had an album out in years.”

“Yes, well that white-headed boy sure likes him,” Grimaldi said, and Ron dropped a Van Halen CD with a loud clatter. Harry gasped, and Darby grabbed hold of him, shaking.

“Malfoy!” Harry spat. “HE was here?”

Grimaldi nodded, waving his Wand. The Shoppe music changed, something familiar in opera that Harry almost recognized. It was soft and sweet, yet sad at the same time.

“Yes,” Grimaldi replied, “Very thin and sickly looking boy. Pale as a ghost, white hair, black clothes … frightening little fellow. Sort of looked like a ferret, somehow. Special ordered the CD. Actually, he’s been in here before. Quite the Muggle music collector, likes the harsh stuff.”

“That’s the Draco we know and hate,” Ron hissed.

“So, what brings you three to my humble Shoppe in the middle of the summer holiday, boys?” The old man asked, obviously hoping that they didn’t want Muggle music ordered.

“Ron?” Harry suggested, “The Card?”

“Oy, right!” Ron gasped, pulling out the Trading Card again and showing it to the old man, who blushed.

“I’ve not seen one of these in AGES!” He crowed. “WHERE did you find it?”

Ron shrugged. “In a box of chocolate frogs, where else?”

“I’ve been out of print for at least a half-century,” Grimaldi said modestly. “Can I keep this?”

Ron nodded. “We’ve got plenty,” Harry added, “You’re popping up everywhere, it seems. New edition?”

Grimaldi shook his head. The music changed, and the old man sighed. “Ah, ‘Rinaldo’,” he said in a low voice, “I used to love this song.”

“Er,” Harry began, not really knowing how to present their situation. “Mr. Ollivander suggested that we come and see you. We sort of have this odd problem, and he thought you might be able to answer some questions for us.”

Grimaldi turned around and stared at him for a moment, his eyes sparkling. “Oh, before I forget,” he said to Darby, “Do be a good little fellow and fetch my paper from the box out front? Thanks.”

Darby did that, running out and back in and handing him the paper. He gave a Harry an odd look when he came back in, but said nothing. Grimaldi took out a pair of reading glasses and shook out the paper. “And what questions can a silly old shopkeeper like me answer for you?” He asked as he scanned the front page, moving his head in time with the chamber music.

Harry’s jaw dropped. There, on the back of the paper, was a full-page ad with his moving picture on it, accompanied by smaller pictures of Ron and Darby and Seamus.

All three of them swallowed hard. HOW were they going to broach the subject of the Knife of Klingsor without giving themselves away?“That poor little boy,” Grimaldi sighed, reading the cover story. It was all about Seamus still being missing. “I do so hope he turns up alright. Now, what was the question again?”

“Well,” Ron offered awkwardly, “Your Card says that you used to sing opera and that you were the one who invented the phonograph for reproducing sounds, only with Magic and not mechanics. Is that right?”

“Indeed,” Grimaldi replied, smiling. “I think that Muggle Edison must have overheard something about it somewhere, though.”

Darby, however, threw caution to the wind. He’d been staring at his own picture on the back of the paper as Grimaldi read it and he knew that he wasn’t disguised as Harry and Ron were. Cutting straight to the point, he came right out and asked, “What can you tell us about Eunuch Wizards and the Knife of Klingsor?”

Grimaldi looked at him over the edge of the paper. “And just what would you like to know about it?” He asked in a level tone. “Thinking about having something cut off, are you?”

“NO, sir,” Darby replied, seeming to become agitated. “My best friend already had that done to him and now he’s missing.”

The old man sighed and put the paper down, back page up. He looked at Darby, looked at the pictures, and then looked back at the boys standing right in front of him. “Well, one out of four isn’t too bad, I’d guess,” he mumbled.

“Busted,” Ron muttered.

“We cahn’t explain it all to you sir,” Harry then said, “But your Card and your name keeps coming up. We’ve talked to someone else, and he suggested that we come and see you. I’ve learned that when you’re a Wizard, things like this usually aren’t coincidences.”

“You don’t have to explain, boys. I already know all about Seamus Finnegan. I was the one who actually cut him.”

Grimaldi’s words struck the boys, Harry especially, like a blow.

“Y-you?” Ron and Harry both gasped. Darby, however, looked like he would just as soon have punched Grimaldi in the mouth. His eyes were flashing and he was flexing his fists.

“WHY did you do it to him?” The little boy demanded in a tone beyond his years.

Grimaldi sighed and motioned for the boys to come behind the counter. He ushered them back to a small break-type room with some chairs and a little round table, then rushed to the front door to hang out his ‘BE RIGHT BACK!’ sign. When he returned, he found three sets of very angry eyes staring back at him.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said in a resigned tone. “I’m not proud of what I did, but I did it. I had to do it, so there.”

“I think we’d better hear the whole story from the beginning,” Ron suggested, one hand on Darby’s arm to keep him from doing anything rash.

Grimaldi took up his Wand, tapped a teakettle, and immediately began fixing himself a cup. The boys declined, watching as the man folded his plump but long frame into a chair. “As you can tell from my name, I’m of Italian descent,” he began.

“My family was very poor, boys. I don’t remember how many brothers and sisters I had, because my parents sold me off to a traveling music scout, of sorts, when I was six years old. That was the custom in those days, what with the Opera being as popular as it was. You’re lucky to live in this day and age, boys. Back then, probably one of you, if not two, would already have been castrated by now for the sake of the voice that you MIGHT have.”

“Tell that to Seamus,” Darby snorted.

“I’m getting there,” Grimaldi snapped back at him. “Give me a bit, will you?”

“Sorry,” Harry offered, giving Darby a silencing look. He was quite unwound himself, but he held his tongue. After all, he was sitting at the table with the very man who had wielded The Knife of Klingsor at Seamus’ castration. He wanted to hear it all, even though it made his flesh creep. It also made him rock hard, however, and his erection throbbed annoyingly in his shorts.

“Seamus wasn’t castrated for his VOICE, son,” Grimaldi retorted hotly, taking a long drink of his tea. “I don’t expect YOU to know that, being a First Year. I don’t expect anyone, except for Dumbledore and a few others to know it either. It’s a dirty little secret of the Wizarding World, and one that I’m not proud to have been a part of … twice.”

“So you were a singer?” Harry prodded.

Grimaldi nodded. “Not just ‘a singer’; a castrato singer! As I said, I was sold to this man who took me to a Conservatorio in Naples. It was a nice trip, and he was polite to me. He was even affectionate to some degree, which I liked, since all my parents ever did was yell at and beat me. The only things he insisted upon were making me eat and bathing me when we stopped for the night at an Inn. He even bought me a suit of new clothes! When we arrived at the school, oh, what a magnificent place it was! Huge old stone buildings, lots of grounds, big trees, and a view of the mountains! I thought it was paradise! And all the food!

“My host took me in, and the first thing he did was take me to the kitchens. He fed me more food than I’d seen in a week back home. He insisted that I eat, because there was plenty for everyone. I had no idea how that could be possible, boys, but I believed him. Then, when I was finally full, he took me up to the third floor of the great building that he said would be my new home. He showed me to a room with five or six beds in it, great big featherbeds with canopies and a huge window to the south with a breathtaking view.

“I remember asking him, ‘Am I to stay in here, sir?’ and he nodded, smiling at me. He said I’d share the room with some other boys my own age, and all that I had to do was to learn how to sing. Oh, there would be the occasional chores like helping with the kitchens or in the laundry, cutting wood, taking care of the lawn, but nothing too bad compared to what I was used to! I had been brought to school by a man who seemed to really like me, and I could not have been happier!”

Harry glanced over at Ron, who smiled a wry smile at him. “I know how it must have felt,” he stated, thinking back to the day last year when Hagrid had come to take him away to Hogwart’s. Harry thought he’d died and gone to Heaven as well; he’d never been so happy in his life.

Grimaldi smiled, but it was a melancholy smile. He poured himself more tea and went on.

“It was quite late when the other boys got back from wherever they’d been all day. My host, I forget his name now, had been showing me about the school and was just getting me dressed in my pajamas after a bath. He was big on bathing, I recall. Scrubbed me down with a rough brush, scrubbed me all over, come to think of it. I don’t think that to this day I’ve ever been so clean.”

“HE gave you a bath?” Ron asked, pulling a face.

“I was six,” Grimaldi replied, “And he didn’t DO anything to me that I didn’t like. Of course he saw me naked, he burned my old clothes after he’d washed me the first time and had my hair cut a bit. I had splendid shoulder length black curls, I did. It was the fashion of the day, you know.”

“Why?” Darby asked in wonder, rubbing at the back of his nearly-shaven head.

Grimaldi shrugged. “It just was. Why have YOU got such a funny short haircut and a silver ring in your ear?” He asked. Darby blushed.

“But back to the school thing,” Harry prompted, genuinely wanting to hear more about this life that so paralleled his own.

“Ah, yes, school,” Grimaldi went on, “Well, my host was just tucking me in. It’s odd what we remember when we get old, boys. I don’t recall my last customer yesterday, but I can still feel those soft pajamas on my skin. They were flannel and so soft and warm, and when he tucked me into bed, I felt his lips on my forehead. No one had ever kissed me goodnight before,” the old man mused, his eyes growing misty. “I was asleep before he even took his hands from my cheeks.”

Harry could almost see it in his mind’s eye. A little boy raised by adults who didn’t even know or care if he existed from day to day, taken away by some loving stranger. Some stranger, who at his first touch, had fallen in love with a boy. Harry thought once again about Hagrid, that giant of a man whose own touch was so gentle and warm. He remembered being carried up to the Castle when he’d fallen ill after slipping out of the Infirmary. He remembered how Hagrid had held him so tenderly, how he’d helped Madame Pomfrey see to his illness. He wondered what Hagrid would think of him now, disguised, lying, on the run and probably about to get his best friends killed.

He’d do the very same thing, Harry suddenly realized, staring into Grimaldi’s sad eyes and imagining that this plump old man would probably have understood perfectly if he were to open up and tell him the whole story.

But of course, Harry couldn’t do that. There was too much to risk; too much to lose. With rapt attention, they listened as Grimaldi went on.

“When I awoke the next morning, it was to the sounds of other boys. Of course, I was used to being awakened by such, but this time it was different. This time it was happy chatter, playful banter, jibes and jokes in fun. A pillow landed on my face, and I sat up to find four other boys in pajamas just like mine staring at me and whispering to one another.

“Of course, I’d never had a friend before, and I didn’t know what to make of them. Then the one who’d thrown the pillow at me came over to fetch it, and he smiled at me! ‘My name’s Velluti,’ he said to me, and he pointed at each of the other boy’s in turn. This is Favalli, Mancini … he named them all, but those are the only two I can recall. I told him I was Grimaldi, and he offered me his hand. He then smiled and pulled me up, I think he said something like, ‘Hey, we got a new kid!’ or something. We were friends at that very first moment,” he sighed. “For years.”

Ron looked over at Harry, and smiled back at him. Theirs had been friendship at first sight as well, on that very first ride on The Hogwart’s Express.

A long silence fell over them all as Grimaldi refilled his teakettle, absently pouring some for the boys, even though they’d refused earlier. Darby, it seemed, caught up in the old man’s tale, had settled down a bit. The defiant sparkle was gone from his eyes, and Harry figured that he was probably beginning to see parallels to his own life in Grimaldi’s story, just like he had.

“So, instead of Magic, you studied singing?” Ron asked nervously.

Grimaldi nodded. “Oh, we did more than sing, er, what was your name again?”

“Rod,” Ron lied smoothly. “That’s Dudley,” he said, pointing at Harry, “And the mouthy one is Davey.”

“Ah,” Grimaldi retorted, “I thought it was Darby. Looks like the O’Gill boy in the paper, but then again, can’t be, can it, since Darby’s missing? Must be getting senile, seeing things.”

“Touché,” muttered Harry.

But Grimaldi grinned at them, shaking his head. “Who am I, an old and worn out Wizard, to deny three boys full of life and spit and vigor their adventure for the holiday? Now where was I?”

“Studying more than music,” Ron added helpfully, helping himself to some tea and biscuits. Ron, it seemed, was always hungry.

“We got up at near dawn,” Grimaldi told them, “And changed into our day clothes, our common rags, as the others called them. I didn’t think it was a rag, though! It was a fine paisley printed tunic of the softest cloth I’d ever worn, other than the pajamas. And the breeches, well, they were more like knickers, came down to just below the knees with long socks to meet them. Of course in the hot weather, we were allowed to do without them and just wear the tunics. And for the first time in my life, I had shoes! A common set, which we didn’t bother with in good weather, and a formal set for performances and such.

“But the finest thing of all was the robe. Black, it was, much like your Wizarding robes, with a shining red belt and red-trimmed little berets. We wore our hair long back then, I think I mentioned, tied back with fine silk ribbons. But that didn’t come until much later. And YOU think you’re overworked,” Grimaldi mused, grinning at them.

“Potions is a real bitch,” Ron exclaimed, “It cahn’t have been as bad back then as it is now! The homework is just bloody awful!”

The old man smiled at him. “Well, I don’t know, Rod, my boy. You see, that first day, my friend Velluti sort of took me in hand. I had no musical training at ALL. I was a common illiterate peasant boy from the north, and I didn’t know if I COULD sing! I’d never sang a note in my life! I even had trouble with the language, it was so thickly accented. But despite his own schoolwork, Velluti – or rather, John (he said it Zh-ahn) found time to help me. We didn’t use first names, usually, and John’s was just too cumbersome, he said. But ‘John’ sounded better, wasn’t really an Italian common name, and he liked it.

“Our day would start by getting up, as I said, and then we’d put on our common clothes and go down to breakfast. We all took turns, younger and older students alike, in helping with the kitchen duties. After breakfast, we had two hours of schoolwork, the usual stuff like reading, math, grammar, etc., followed by two hours of music lessons. By then, after a short break between, it was lunchtime. That was followed by two more hours of music, two more of academia, and depending on the weather, another break. We were given an hour or so of free time for recreation in the evenings, then supper, homework, private studies, chores if we had them, and then bath time and bed.”

“Sounds like Hogwart’s,” Harry agreed, although he didn’t think that the academic schedule was quite as rigorous.

There was a knock at the door then, and Grimaldi excused himself to help a customer. The music had long since stopped, and when the old man came back, he waved his Wand and it began again. It was an operatic strain, something slow and quite sad. He looked a bit pale and shaken, giving Harry an odd look but saying nothing about it.

”Lascia ch’io pianga”, Grimaldi sighed, sinking back into the chair. ”No one knows MY pain. And I think no one does.”

Darby, however, shook his head. “I think Seamus Finnegan does, if this is going where I think it’s going,” he said, and Grimaldi looked up sharply. Instead of correcting the boy, however, he simply nodded. Harry and Ron remembered something about that from Hermione’s long dissertation on eunuchs that she’d sent them, and both of them cringed and pressed their legs together.

“Ah, yes, Seamus,” the old man agreed. “He knows my pain. And I know his.”

“They c-castrated you, didn’t they?” Harry guessed, “So that you could sing better?”

Grimaldi nodded. “I was six when I got there, and it was customary to do the operation around that age, no later than ten, certainly. It was too risky for the voice, they said, too much chance that it wouldn’t take properly and the boy would end up gelded for no good reason. I know that it happened, though. How can you take a poor boy who can’t even read and castrate him, thinking that it will automatically make him a perfect singer?” Then he thought for a moment. “Or how can you castrate a boy who’s a Wizard, and expect him to turn out to be some hero who can’t be beaten because he’s so powerful? It didn’t always work boys, and we all lived in fear of that.”

“What about the birthmark?” Ron offered.

“OH, that,” Grimaldi sneered. “Yes, it seems that I had that too, although I had no idea what it was. The other boys noticed it in the baths, though. They also noticed that I still had my balls.”

“And they didn’t?” Harry asked. “They’d all been cut already?”

“Cut with ordinary knives,” Grimaldi agreed, “As I was the first time. I remember I was shocked to see John, or ‘John B’ as we called him, since there was another John in the other dormitory. I remember it like it was yesterday, seeing that scar on his little scrotum. I asked him what it was, and his jaw just dropped. ‘You mean you don’t know?’ he asked me, and I didn’t know!

“He stepped up closer to me, as I was IN the bath already and we only had two tubs, so we had to take turns. I looked closely, and sure enough, it looked like he didn’t have any balls. ‘What happened to you?’ I asked, genuinely upset. And then one of the other boys, he said to John B., ‘John, I don’t think he KNOWS!’

“’Knows what?’” I asked him, “’What happened to John’s balls?’”

“’Alessandro’, he told me, ‘I’ve been castrated. Castrated for my voice, although they said I was cut because of an illness I had when I was younger. We all have been.’

“Well, that was when I almost panicked, let me tell you! One by one, they’d all undressed and showed me their shrunken and empty little pouches. Of course, they all still had their little boyhood penises, but what good would they be? They could still pee standing up, but that was about it! You see, boys, I don’t know if you know this or not, but it’s not all about sex. Wizards like Seamus are castrated for the sake of their Powers, so that they don’t waste their energies on sexual things. Boys like me, back then, were castrated because of our voices, so that they wouldn’t change. That way, we could grow up into great singers with unique voices that were highly prized.

“There are things that happen to boys when they’ve been castrated. Obviously, since you know about your friend Seamus, you know that he can’t have sex with a woman or father children like an intact man can. And of course, he can’t masturbate anymore. But he also won’t ever grow a beard, nor much body hair, either; he’ll never go bald, though. His voice will never break, always staying at that sweet boyhood tone. His skin will stay soft, his appearance boyish, and he wont’ develop the musculature of a man, either. He’ll either grow tall and thin, or he’ll end up a bit taller and fatter than normal with longer arms and legs than usual. That’s what castration does to a boy like him, or to me back then, to say nothing of the fact that he’ll have no sex drive or sexual ability.”

Harry rubbed at his chin, his other hand under the table. His cock was throbbing relentlessly, and it looked as if Ron were in the same state. He couldn’t’ really tell about Darby, whose face was a mystery as he stared at Grimaldi. Very suddenly, Harry felt sick. He’d just listened to what sounded to him like a death sentence for Seamus. The familiar guilt that he felt every time he got off ate at him again, and he put his head down on the table. Ron moved closer to him, putting an arm around his shoulders.

“Harry?” He asked softly.

“It’s n-not f-fair!” Harry choked, every orgasm that he’d ever had coming back to haunt him. He could almost see Seamus sitting alone on his four-poster bed in his room, overlooked, lonely, and not even able to pleasure himself. He began to imagine how it must have felt before that morning that he’d gone into Seamus’ room, when he suddenly looked up and over at Darby.

“He wrote me,” Darby said in a low voice. “Sed he wished I wuz there so he’d not be so all alone. He thought no’un liked him because he wuz … he wuz …”

“He felt ostracized and paranoid because he was a eunuch?” Grimaldi supplied, and Darby nodded.

“He wuz set in makin’ ME a Wizard, too, so I cud go ta school wit ‘im,” Darby added. “Worried ‘e was gon’ta be in trouble fer messin’ wit’ a Muggle. Then he wrote and sed Harry Potter made friends wit’ ‘im! He sounded diff’rent after that, ‘e did,” Darby said. “Coupl’a times he called his mum on the Floo thing, he was so homesick, and she’d come o’er an’ git me so I cud talk to ‘im. You made ‘im happy again, ‘Arry.”

It took a bit for them all to get hold of themselves, especially Harry. More than ever, he was determined to get Seamus back – get him back, and never let go of him again!

“So when did they cut you?” Ron asked, wanting to hear more of the tale.

“I think it was about a month after I came to the school,” Grimaldi reflected. “I think they figured out by then that I had some kind of vocal ability. We woke up, and the Headmaster came to our room as we were dressing. He told me not to bother, and the other boys knew what that meant. He didn’t let me have breakfast, only a bit of juice and put me back to bed. He had John B. stay with me to keep me out of trouble! Can you imagine?”

Ron and Harry exchanged guilty glances. “No!” They both breathed.

“Well, suffice it to say I was surprised when the Headmaster came back with a doctor. I’d never seen a doctor before! And he insisted that I have another bath! I protested of course, since I’d had one the night before, not eight or nine hours ago! ‘But I’m already clean, sir!’ I tried to explain, and he just laughed at me.

“So down to the cellar we went, ran another bath, John B. helping me to undress. As he was doing that, the doctor comes over and picks me up, puts me on the laundry table, and tells me to lie back so he can examine me. Well, that was another shock, as I’d never been ‘examined’ before! He looked in my eyes, in my ears, in my mouth, even down my throat! He touched me here and there, felt me all over, pushed and poked and played with my genitals for a long while. It kind of hurt, I recall, as he pulled and squeezed and made notes. He wanted to know what my birthmark was, looked closely at it and poked at it, but decided that it was just a big mole.”

“Seamus’ Mark dint’ look like a mole,” Ron commented, “You could tell it was something er the other.”

Grimaldi nodded. “It didn’t matter, though. I was six. I wouldn’t be getting my Hogwart’s letter for another four years.” Then he laughed. “Ironic, isn’t it? There I was, scared to death of being castrated like all the other boys at school, when I’d have been castrated for Hogwart’s four years later anyway!”

“It’s not funny,” Darby muttered, and Harry and Ron nodded.

“No, it’s not,” Grimaldi agreed, “But it happens, son. Not often, now, but it did then. Did you know that during the 16th and 17th centuries, up to 4,000 boys a year were castrated in Italy alone for the sake of the Voice? It didn’t come to an end until 1878, and the last castrato singer died in 1922?”

All three boys swallowed hard, with all three sets of hands under the table and hanging on.

“Wait a bit,” Ron interrupted, frantically doing some math in his head. “You were six, and you’re grown up now. If it stopped like 120-odd years ago, that makes you … you’re …” but the math failed him, “Pretty bloomin’ old!” Ron conceded, giving up on the exact number.

Grimaldi nodded, his plump face sad again. He didn’t speak for a long while, until Darby went over and laid a small hand on his shoulder. The old man patted it, finally getting control of himself. “I’m sorry,” he said in low whisper. “I’ve not thought about those years for a long, long time.”

Ron looked awfully guilty, and he apologized for calling him old. “I suck at math,” he conceded. “Sorry.”

“That’s another side effect of castration, boys, especially on castrated little boys. No male hormones, and you live longer. Never mind the Magical part, but Wizards DO live longer than Muggles. Eunuch Wizards live even longer. I’m over 200 years old, boys. Can you believe that?”

Harry could.

He thought about Dumbledore, wondered how old HE was, and thought about Nicholas Flamel and the Sorcerer’s Stone. They’d been partners, the Trading Cards had said, and Flamel had been 665 when he’d found out about it; thanks to the Elixir of Life. Harry’s stomach churned as he thought about THAT, remembering that both he and Seamus had been exposed to the Stone’s Elixir as well. He tried to imagine 600 years of living, but he couldn’t. 12 was already enough to deal with!

“And so I was castrated,” Grimaldi said, “The doctor said I was fine, put me in a very hot bath, and gave me a glass of wine. I’d never had real wine before, and I remember giggling a lot and John B. laughing at me as I passed out. Found out later that it was laced with opium. Turns out, while I was asleep, they took me out of the bath. The operation was simple: make a cut in the sac, pop the testicles out, tie the cords, cut them, throw away the testicles, and then cauterize the wounds and bandage. I woke up in bed that evening, late, with John B. sitting there on the edge of my bed and holding my hand.

“He’d put a cold compress on my forehead, and he looked so worried and worn out. Turns out, he’d run back up to our room on every break he’d had that day to see me. ‘Hurts, doesn’t it?’ he asked, and we both laughed at that. It hurt to laugh too, but I was back on my feet in a week and back to normal in two,” Grimaldi sighed. “Those were the best years of my life.”

“WHAT?!” The boys all squeaked in unison, unable to imagine that statement!

Grimaldi raised his bushy, gray eyebrows. “I was at school, I had food and clothes, shelter, a warm bed, and all my friends. And I had John, John B, that is. He taught me how to sing, he taught me my schoolwork, and he looked out for me. He was a bit older than me, not much, but enough. He was a friend, a teacher, a brother, and … and a lover,” Grimaldi added reluctantly. “It’s a good idea to have older boys take the younger ones in hand I think, advise them, help them along. I think I’d have been hopeless without him.”

Harry’s face turned beet red, and Ron coughed. Darby shook his head and sighed.

“What?” Grimaldi asked, confused. “Oh, boys, you’re too young, I suppose. You wouldn’t understand love, love like THAT, I don’t think. They didn’t think that castrati were supposed to be capable of things like that, or even THINK about it, but they were wrong. Of course, we couldn’t DO much, but we sure tried and had fun doing it. More than one night, mind, John B. was in my bed, or I in his. You’re just too young, and I shouldn’t be telling you things like that, I suppose. You’ll find out someday.”

Harry said nothing. His ears were ringing with Seamus’ voice. Jus’ hold me, he’d said, Hold me and don’t ferget about me. Despite Grimaldi’s words, Harry had a pretty good idea of what he was talking about, every time he thought about Seamus.

But it made sense, what Grimaldi was saying. Harry thought about Oliver Wood, his Quidditch Captain. Wood had warmed right up to him when Professor McGonagall had introduced him, pleading that he be made Gryffindor Seeker despite his small size and age. The reaction he’d expected – complaints about a ‘little kid’ on his team – had never happened. Wood had taught Harry all about Quidditch, never spoke harshly to him, and unlike many upperclassmen, he always said ‘hello’ to Harry in passing. He even took time in the common room to help Harry (and Ron) with their homework if he came by and saw that they were struggling with no Hermione to bail them out!

But was there something else? Harry’s mind raced over it as Grimaldi chatted about musical scores, favorite songs, and other things at school before he’d been summoned to Hogwart’s.

Was it Wood’s smile, those perfectly aligned white teeth flashing at him on the Quidditch field? Or was it the smirk and the dimpled grin that he made every time he blocked a goal as Keeper? Harry thought about how Wood would often sit between he and Ron on one of the great, squashy couches in the common room, watching them do their homework. Wood, Harry suddenly realized, liked to tussle his perpetually messy hair and pat him on the back when he’d done well. And he smiled a lot, too, talking in that thick Scottish brogue that Harry loved to listen to almost as much as he loved Seamus’ Irish accent.

But Wood hadn’t tried anything with him, as Grimaldi had said they’d done when he’d been in school.

Or had he? Did he want to, and Harry just hadn’t noticed it?

Looking back with a new perspective, Harry suddenly thought about the stares in the locker room before Quidditch Matches. Wood usually had to help him with his shin guards and playing robe; he could never get them hooked right. And he always took Harry by his smooth chin and raised it when the boy was feeling nervous, staring into his eyes and just nodding. And of course, there were the hugs and hand-raising/arm jerkings when they won. And they always won when Harry played! He always caught the Golden Snitch, and Wood would scream, “That’s MY boy!” every time that they did, hoisting Harry into the air on his shoulders and hugging his legs tight to hold him up.

And what about the walks up the stair case to their dormitory at night, and those playful slaps to the butt to send him through the door and those warm “Ged’niiyyt, ‘Arry,”’s that he always gave him? Thinking back, it certainly solved the mystery of how he always wound up back in his own big old soft four-poster bed when he knew very well that he’d fallen asleep on the couch in front of the fire. Harry suddenly had a vision of Wood carrying him up the stairs, pulling his shoes off, and tucking him in. I wonder if he ever kissed me goodnight? the boy wondered, and found that he liked that idea.

Harry felt wind on his nose, and jerked back to reality. Ron was waving his hand in front of his unfocused green eyes. “Earth calling Dudley,” he said, over and over again. “Anybody IN there?”

He came to his senses, flushing. “Sorry,” he offered, “My mind must have wandered.”

“You looked pretty happy, Dudley,” Grimaldi told him with a sly look.

“So you were there for four years?” Ron asked, nudging him back into the conversation now that’d he’d pulled Harry back in.

Grimaldi nodded. “Four years of nothing but singing and playing. We had to learn an instrument as well. Mine was the keyboards, as we call them now. Pianos, organs, harpsichords. I’ll never forget my first Sunday after my castration. You see, I didn’t have a black robe and red sash and hat before I was cut. Only the castrati had those. Church was mandatory, but I had to wear just ordinary dress clothes and sit with the rest of the castrati from school. I felt so out of place, and I so wanted to sing with them.” Grimaldi’s eyes grew as distant as Harry’s had. “John B. helped me put it on the first time, tied the sash for me, and told me how cute I was in my new clothes. And THAT Sunday, I got to SING with them all!”

Oliver told me I was as cute as a niffler digging for gold the first time he put my Quidditch Robes on me, Harry thought wistfully, even though he had no clue what a ‘niffler’ was.

“These school years are the best times of your lives, boys,” Grimaldi told them in a serious tone. “I missed them terribly after my Letter arrived.”

“But you went,” Harry observed, wondering how the boy that was now a melancholy old man could have left the school that he loved so much. He wondered if he could leave Hogwart’s if something else came up, and he doubted it. He was just every bit as happy as Grimaldi had said he had been at the Conservatorio.

“I went,” the old man said sadly. “I left my friends and my musical career behind for a career in Magic. Not that I had much choice. I had the Mark after all, and some strange things had been happening anyway. Strange, inexplicable things. I suppose all along I knew that it was me doing it, but I didn’t want to believe it. I was afraid that it was the Devil, that I was bad! I was scared that the church would find out and toss me out! I didn’t want to go, so I didn’t answer the letter.”

“You didn’t answer it?” Ron gasped in shock. “But you were a Wizard!”

Grimaldi laughed. “I thought I was possessed! I showed the letter to John B., of course, and my other dorm mates. We thought it was a joke, but the owl was hard to explain when it wouldn’t leave. What was even harder to explain was when this old fellow caught me just after a choir performance for the church one Sunday evening in late summer.

“’I believe, Alessandro,’ he told me as we were just getting ready to walk back to school, ‘That you have to be at your new school on September 1.’

“I remember that I told him that I already had a school, and that I was perfectly fine where I was, thank you very much. He didn’t buy it, though.”

“They MADE you go?” Darby asked in wonder.

“He showed me other options,” Grimaldi explained. “He took me to Diagon Alley, begging me off of school that Monday. It wasn’t unusual for the upper class to hire out a castrato or two for various things, and he gave them the story of wanting me to sing for his daughter’s coming out party. I had to go and get the scope of the house, read the music, practice … the usual. Of course, once here in Diagon Alley, I started to change my mind.”

“So did I,” Harry recalled, smiling at Darby, who grinned back at him.

“Then when we got back some days later,” the old man told them, “I told John B. all about it. He didn’t want me to go. He begged me to stay, but I knew – somehow – that I just couldn’t. I was different, I knew it then. But the trip to Diagon Alley had proven it. There was simply no way that I could stay. And so I left with my new host.”

“Must have been hard,” Darby wondered aloud.

“It would have been harder, being tried as a Witch,” Grimaldi offered. “The Muggles were very afraid of Witches back then, you know. Still are, somewhat. THAT in itself convinced me that I had to leave.”

“How did John, I mean, John B. take it?” Harry asked, never having had a friend before he’d met Ron and genuinely curious.

“He was devastated,” Grimaldi replied, wiping at his eye. “We both cried after I’d packed up. We shared a long goodbye kiss, boys. My little heart was breaking, but I didn’t have much choice. I just stood there, holding him in my arms, knowing that very soon I’d have to let go of him forever.

“My new host had made all the necessary arrangements with the Conservatorio for my change of careers, and there was nothing that we could do. As far as they were concerned, and since I was pretty good at singing by then, they just thought I’d been ‘bought’, rather, permanently hired by someone rich.

“The last that I ever saw of John B., he was just standing there in the window in his black robe and red sash. He tipped his beret to me and waved, just standing there, so forlorn, looking like a lost soul with nowhere to go and no idea of what to do. The sun was setting, I recall, and the warm evening rays painted him all yellow and orange in the glass. He almost glowed, and I just watched him, wondering at how beautiful he was and how much I loved him.”

Harry swallowed hard again, fighting back the urge to cry. When Hogwart’s had called upon HIM, he’d been overjoyed to leave with Hagrid. The Dursleys hated him, and it been like salvation, leaving. For Grimaldi, however, it had been the very opposite. The little boy’s heart had been broken, tearing him away from the people who loved him. Taking him away from his best friend forever.

“My host, I don’t recall his name either, let us just stare for a bit. Then he gently guided me away to his carriage, and we drove off. I didn’t look back at the home I’d known for almost five years. That chapter of my life had closed. Then on September 1, I found myself at Hogwart’s, being placed in Ravenclaw House by that funny old hat. I was all alone again, had no friends, and didn’t know anyone. I missed John B. so bad that I cried myself to sleep that first night.”

Seamus must have done the same thing, Harry wondered, feeling terribly guilty for having been fooled by the Overlook-Me Charm that had been placed upon him to help protect him. Harry recalled being so happy on his first night at school that he couldn’t get to sleep, sitting in the cool old window with Hedwig, his Owl, well into the night and staring out over the grounds in wonder.

“I remember that I didn’t go down to breakfast that first morning,” Grimaldi went on. “Our House Sponsor, a very odd old man by the name of … oh, dammit … Barker, yes! I remembered! Imagine that. Not senile after all. Where was I?”

“In bed, upset,” Ron offered.

“Oh yes. Well, Barker understood, alright. Thought I was going to take ill with homesickness. But he didn’t think too badly of me. He excused me from Classes, suggested that I write to John B. and tell him that I’d arrived and was settling in. I felt rather odd tying the letter to the owl’s leg, but three days later, the owl was back with a reply from John! I was so happy to hear from him. It seemed that shortly after I’d left, he’d done his first solo in church.”

“Was that good?” Ron asked.

“Oh, it was a very important thing for a young castrato then, Rob,” the old man said earnestly, getting Ron’s assumed name wrong. “He sang our favorite hymn, he wrote me all about it, pretending that I was right there in the front row watching him and cheering him on silently.”

“Whatever happened to him, after you’d gone off to Hogwart’s?” Harry asked, needing to know for some odd reason.

“He became very, very famous, boys,” Grimaldi smiled back, “In fact, he was the last great castrato to ever grace the operatic stage and make the ladies swoon with his voice. He was a powerful singer, traveled all over the world, and grew very rich. He even took his stage name from his surname, which was unusual. I think that Farinelli was actually named Broschi. Sounds better, doesn’t it? But John B., no! He took his own name and ran with it, full of himself and his talents. He would later be billed as Giovanni Battista Velluti, the last of the great operatic castrati.”

None of the boys knew what to say.

“But the Knife,” Harry finally managed, confused, “You’d already been cut at the Conservatorio, but not with THE Knife?”

Grimaldi shuddered. “Oh, that came later. It was a bit late. Usually, they liked to do that when a boy is ten or so, so he can be all healed up and somewhat – adapted – by the time he starts school. Well, you can imagine how upset I was when I found out that I had to be cut on again! I very nearly ran away!”

“So they DID use the Knife of Klingsor on you?” Ron gasped.

Grimaldi nodded. “Took off everything that the doctor back in Italy had left me with. At the Conservatorio, it was only required to castrate a boy. Eunuch Wizards, on the other hand, had to lose it ALL.”

The boys all groaned.

“So needless to say,” Grimaldi added, “I was a bit late in starting my classes. I was amazed, though, at old Doc Pomfrey’s skills at healing me up after the cutting. Only took him a couple of days to get me to the point where I looked like I’d been born with nothing down there to start with. Of course they explained it all, about being a proper Eunuch Wizard, and since I was already a castrato, it sort of made sense to me.”

“DOCTOR Pomfrey?” Harry exclaimed.

“I think that would be Madame Pomfrey’s great-grandfather or somesuch,” Grimaldi mused, grinning. “I hear that she’s top-notch, isn’t she?”

“As many times as she’s patched me up, yes,” Harry agreed, remembering the intense cleaning out that she’d given him.

“So who cut you then?” Darby asked.

“I don’t recall,” Grimaldi grinned, “Obviously, the old Eunuch Wizard that I was going to replace. Doc Pomfrey just patched me up when he was done cutting on me.”

“But then you were the one who cut Seamus,” Darby reminded him, changing the direction of the conversation faster than a Quidditch swerve.

“Yes, I was, Darren,” Grimaldi said sadly, messing up Darby’s name. “You see, Eunuch Wizards aren’t all that common. I don’t think there’s ever been two at once, in fact, and when one does show up with the Mark, it is generally customary for the boy to be cut by the old fart that he’s replacing.”

“Tha’s a novel idea,” Ron muttered.

“I know what you’re thinking, boys,” Grimaldi told them, “And it wasn’t MY idea. I didn’t want any part of it. But I’ve grown tired of this seemingly endless, unnaturally long life of mine. I’ve seen too much, witnessed too many horrors. Generally, boys, when a Eunuch Wizard crops up somewhere, it means that something bad’s going to happen. Something that’s going to take a great deal of Power to cope with. The Ministry of Magic officially banned the castration of young Wizards a LONG time ago, unless they were born with the Mark. Seems some enterprising parents with more than one Magical son thought it would be a good idea to geld a younger boy to increase his Powers, Mark or not, once they found out about it. That’s why it got buried so deeply and almost no one knows about it anymore.”

“But what happens if you castrate a young Wizard, if he’s NOT got the Mark?” Harry asked, feeling very uneasy. Certainly the rise of Lord Voldemort had to be a VERY bad thing that was going to take a LOT of Power to stop, and hadn’t’ Harry already defeated him twice? He was beginning to feel very uneasy, his hands clasped tightly over his crotch under the table.

Grimaldi thought for a bit, and finally remembered. “Well, it DOES work, Dorian” he mused, getting Harry’s assumed name wrong too, “With all the usual repercussions. No voice change, no musculature, etc., as I mentioned before. But while it does temporarily increase their Powers as a Wizard, it isn’t reliable. I mean, if it were, the Ministry probably wouldn’t have banned it and buried it so deeply, would they? And if there’s no real need for it, what’s the boy to do with his Powers? Why cut him if there’s really nothing going on that a normal Wizard can’t handle? It’s just cruel to do that to a boy, I think, rob him of his manhood for no good reason other than status?” Grimaldi’s eyes grew misty again then, and he sighed. “I saw it happen too many times with boys at the Conservatorio. They turn 12 or 13, puberty couldn’t start, but they lost their voices anyway. That or they were cut very young and just couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. So sad.”p]“But we certainly could have used a good Eunuch Wizard some time ago when You-Know-Who was running amok, couldn’t we?” Then he thought for a bit again, all three boys staring at him.

“Interesting little fellow, that Harry Potter,” Grimaldi went on. “I’d like to meet him. I don’t think I would have wanted to take on He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named at all, much less twice! You know him?”

“Met ‘im at school last year,” Ron replied, not daring to look at Harry, who was making small strangled noises.

“He’s not cut is he? Wouldn’t surprise me,” Grimaldi asked quickly, and Harry very nearly fell off his chair.

“No!” Ron replied just as quickly, “Er, not that I know of. Seen ‘im in the shower, ya know, looked OK to me.”

“But why Seamus then?” Darby asked again, seemingly annoyed.

“The only reason I can think of is that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is up to something, boys. Some say he died. I don’t believe it. Not him. No,” Grimaldi theorized, “I think that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is going to make yet another move to come back. Being beaten by a little baby, and the same baby grown up a bit eleven years later, is probably more than his ego can stand! He’ll be back, mark my words. I think that’s why Seamus Finnegan was born with the Mark of Klingsor.”

“But he’s missing,” Harry said in low voice. “That’s not good, is it?”

Grimaldi shook his head, his gray curls swaying. “And I would assume that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is behind it, boys. HE won’t want a little boy out there coming to take him down again, not after two humiliating defeats in a row by Harry Potter! No, Seamus Finnegan is a dire threat to HIM, and I think he’s probably got some servant of his out there trying to make sure that Seamus never fully comes into his own Power. That or HE wants to steal it.”

“Malfoy,” Harry sneered, remembering what Darby had said about a white-haired boy and some man surrounded by smoke.

“Who?” Grimaldi asked.

“I think I know who grabbed Seamus,” Harry replied carefully. “A Slytherin brat whose father is more than likely in league with Voldemort.”

“Don’t say the name out loud!” Grimaldi snapped, glancing about as if the boy had summoned the Dark Lord. Then he settled down. “Don’t go making accusations like that if you can’t back them up, son,” he advised.

“It’s generally the Slytherins who go Bad, though,” Ron added.

“Yes, but if you have a lead, you should tell someone,” Grimaldi told them. “This is serious. That boy’s in grave danger.”

“Oh believe me, I think they know,” Harry replied.

“Then they’ll find him,” Grimaldi said confidently. “This is something best left to trained professionals, though. I can’t believe those boys up and running off on their own trying to find him.”

“What?!” Ron and Harry gasped.

“Well that’s obvious isn’t it? If you read the paper and what the story says, it’s plainly evident that Harry Potter thinks that he can pull this one off, and his friend Ron Weasley is probably just along for the ride. I don’t know where this Darby figures in, but it’s foolhardy! Those boys should be rounded up and … and … spanked!” Grimaldi blurted, words almost failing him. “But I’m not the one to do it.”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat. “I … I think we’d better be going now, sir,” he mumbled, “We’ve taken up your whole morning as it is.”

Grimaldi rose, ushering the boys to the door. As they were making their way out, Grimaldi caught Darby by the back of the collar. “I’d like to know, before you go, boys, just who told you about me? It’s not widely known that Alessandro Grimaldi is the last Eunuch Wizard.”

“Mr. Ollivander,” Darby squeaked, afraid that he’d made the old man angry. Grimaldi’s face, however, said otherwise.

“That silly old coot,” he scoffed. “Ah, well, thanks for the trip down memory lane, boys. And YOU, Dudley,” he called out, “You’d better get that Broomstick over to Quality Quidditch and get it looked at!”

“He recognized us,” Ron said nervously as they made their way down the street to the Quidditch store.

“You think so?” Harry asked in reply, glancing at Darby.

“He kept looking at me,” the little boy replied, “I think he knew. I think he recognized the picture. He let on that he did at the start of his story, then he acted like he didn’t.”

“I think he’s gone mental,” Ron said, “He kept blowing my name and forgetting things.”

“If you were over 200 years old, you would too,” Harry laughed. Then his face turned serious. “I think what he said about Voldemort pretty well confirms our idea, though.”

“Yea,” Ron agreed, flinching as Harry said the name again. “He seemed to think so. What a story that was though!” Then he paused for a bit. “But what did he do to help us, I mean? It was almost like we HAD to see him, but I don’t know why!”

Harry shrugged, but he thought that he had a pretty good idea.

It wasn’t far to Quality Quidditch Supply, and the boys agreed to let Darby head back to the Magical Menagerie to inquire about the large fruit bat. Being in a Shoppe full of Broomsticks didn’t appeal to the boy, anyway, and he was getting nauseated just by looking in the window. Harry gave him a few Galleons and Sickles for pocket money, and watched him head off up the street.

Quality Quidditch Supply was a dream come true for both of them. There were Broomsticks everywhere, the new Nimbus 2001 being the center of attraction. Both boys stared at it for a while, very nearly drooling on it, before they moved on to inspect the wide selection of robes, protective gear, playing balls and accessories. Harry fought down the urge to accessorize extensively, reminding himself that he still had many years to go at Hogwart’s and couldn’t even begin to imagine begging his Uncle Vernon for money if he ran out. Given the state of his Vault however, he doubted that he would. Besides, banks paid interest, and it had looked to Harry that he’d had more gold in his Vault than he’d had the previous year.

He was just trying on an orange ball cap with a large black “C” on it when something buzzed past his ear. Instinctively he snapped his head around the raised his hand, coming down with a fluttering Golden Snitch clasped firmly in his fist.

“Showoff,” Ron grinned at him.

“Niiiiice ketch,” someone drawled in a thick Scottish brogue. Harry gulped, turning around with face flaming to stare right into the dark and sincere puppy dog eyes of his Quidditch Captain, Oliver Wood. The older boy smiled at him, flashing his smile that suddenly made Harry’s legs go watery as if he’d been hit with the Jelly-legs Curse.

Wood was wearing a blue jersey with white trim that said HIGHLANDERS across the back. It was a snug fit, showing off his teenaged musculature in fine detail. His hair was hidden beneath a matching cap, much like the orange one on Harry’s head. He was also wearing black and skin-tight shorts that stopped just above his knees, and low top tennis shoes in blue and black with very toothy looking treads. His left knee was skinned, and there was a large scratch on his right forearm. He also had a large, angry bruise on his other leg, peeking down from out from under his shorts.

“Take a Bludger?” Ron asked, since Harry had been struck dumb.

“Aye! Took it right in the arse!” Wood cried, “Knocked me righ’ outta da sky! Ye shud see tha bruuuuze,” he drawled, grinning.

Harry nodded dumbly, his knuckles white around the stick of his Nimbus 2000.

“Saaay,” Wood observed, grasping the free end of Harry’s trembling Broomstick and stroking it, “Tha’s a pretty banged up Nimbus 2000 yeh got ther’,” he said, frowning slightly. “Yeh shud be a’takin’ bett’r kerr uv ‘er!”

“I … I … got it … erm, USED!” Harry squeaked pathetically. Ron snorted.

“YOU rode it too hard and put it away wet,” he disagreed.

“May I?” Wood offered politely, fooled by their disguises. “I’m wurkin’ part time ‘ere ‘til school starz up in Zeptimber,” he drawled, and Harry handed it to him. He forgot to release his grip, suddenly recalling everything that Grimaldi had said about older boys and younger boys in stark clarity.

Ron laughed at him.

“Leggo, now,” Wood said softly, and Harry did. Wood looked the Nimbus over carefully, tut-tutting about its battered state. “Clip some twigs, repress the tail, refinish the shaft,” he stated, running his hand up and down the handle. “Ooooooooh my, a krrrack!” He gasped, seeing the head of the shaft and softly touching it with a fingertip. “This iz gon’ta cost ya aboot twinty Gallyuns ter fix,” he estimated.

“OK!” Harry managed in a shrill voice, digging in his pocket and trying hard to not notice his pounding erection that he seemed to be cursed with. He failed, and had to adjust his shorts.

“Stiff,” Wood observed, and Harry almost fainted.

“What?” Ron cried, grinning at Harry, who smacked his arm.

“Tha briss-uhles er all stiff,” Wood drawled on, “An’ der’s a … wait a minute!” He said in a lower tone, his accent fading. “Wha’s yer name, son?”

“Dudley,” Harry lied, “Why?”

“Well, Dudley, becuz this ‘ere’s a stolen Nimbus! See dat mark der? Righ’ at the bend ‘o da shaft, back a bit from the head?” Wood pointed to small letter “G” carved on the underside of the Broomstick.

“Uh oh,” Ron breathed, “I think we’re busted again.”

“Damm righ’ ye’s are!” Wood yelled, “This ‘ere Broomstick belongs ter ‘Arry Potter, me Seeker fer Gryffindor House! I carved that “G” on all ‘o me teams’ Brooms ter identify ‘em! Cursed, it is too, keeps the bloody Slytherins off’n ‘em, too! No’un but a Gryffindor kin ride our Broomsticks!”

“Oliver,” Harry said, getting hold of himself and untying his tongue. “It’s not stolen. It’s mine.”

“Like ‘ell it is,” Wood snapped angrily, “I shud call tha Ministry ‘o Magic’s Underage Division righ’ now! This is ‘Arry’s Broom ‘e got from Professor McGonagall! I placed da order fer it meself, I did! Poor little fella, orphan an’ all, flies like hell tho! But not a single piece ‘o mail and all alone at school but fer his friend Ron. I ‘ear them Muggles what raised ‘im jus’ hate ‘im. NEVER got any mail, no werd from home, not ter mention all tha crap about whut happened with Vol-der-ummmm, HIM, yea … an’ everyone starin’ at ‘is scar on ‘is forehead like ‘e was a freak er sumthin’…” Oliver ranted, gesticulating with Harry’s Nimbus in hand and knocking over a pail of brand new Golden Snitches. Naturally, they all took flight in the high-ceiling room.

“Aw, shit!” Wood swore, as the Snitches all flew merrily about the Shoppe.

“Oliver!” Harry snapped at him, quickly pulling down two more Snitches as they whizzed past him. Wood’s rant had embarrassed him, but it had also confirmed that the Scottish lad did, in fact, have a soft spot for Harry in his heart. “Oliver!” He cried again, as a Snitch crashed into Ron’s tummy, doubling him over, “It’s MY Broom! It’s me, Harry!”

“Later,” Wood replied, jumping on a new 2001 and heading up after the flock of rabid Snitches that were in danger of breaking the windows as they bounced around the Shoppe. Harry shook his head and jumped on another display model, zooming up to the high ceiling to help him. Ron followed suit, and in about half an hour, they’d caught them all.

“Noh’ bad, boys,” Wood complimented them, smiling that perfect smile at them as they landed and replaced the demo models on the rack. “Like the 2001’s? We jus’ ‘ad an order fer a whole team’s werth o’ ‘em. Dunno who’s buyin’ tho, but iz paid fer.”

“I like my 2000 better,” Harry replied. “Can you fix it, please?” He almost pleaded.

Wood carefully locked up the Snitches. “I wud if’n it were yers,” he snapped, suddenly angry again.

“It IS mine!” Harry snapped back, turning to Ron. “I’m Harry Potter, Oliver! I’m in disguise!” He cried in desperation.

Wood opened his mouth to say something else, but stopped. “Huh?”

“Ron,” Harry said, handing him his Wand. “Would you?”

Ron nodded. “So much fer haircuts,” he groaned. “Revallo! He cried, waving the Wand at Harry.

A thin white fog shot out of Harry’s Wand and engulfed him, and Wood jumped back with a strangled sound. Through the fog, Harry’s short blonde spiked haircut shifted back to a black moppy mess and his glasses reverted to black from gold. His face shifted a bit, and his lightning bolt scar became evident again. Wood gawped at him, then Ron waved the Wand again and Harry was back in disguise. Only his glittering green eyes remained unchanged.

Wood stared at them, open mouthed. “Ron?” He asked, and Ron nodded. “Rod, actually, sir, Rod Winthrop! An’ this is Dudley Dursley! Pleased to meet ya!”

“Right, and I’m Severus Snape, Jr.,” Wood grinned, suddenly catching Harry up in his one arm and hugging Ron with the other. “I cud tell by yer flyin’, I shudda knowed!” Wood cried happily, “Shudda knowed tha’ wuz me boy!”

“So can you fix it, Oliver?” Harry managed, when Wood had put him back down.

“Whut didja do ter ‘er, ‘Arry?” He asked in wonder.

“We flew from Ottery St. Catchpole to Waterville, Ireland in just over an hour,” Harry replied, and Wood’s jaw dropped. “Pulling Ron and a friend on Ron’s old Broom too,” Harry added.

“Yeh TOWED Ron’s Broom with ANOTHER boy on it too?” Wood wheezed, going pale in the face.

“Er, yea,” Harry replied, looking down at his feet guiltily and trying to look pathetic. More than anything, he didn’t want Wood angry with him. He had a feeling that he knew what was coming.

Sure enough, as Wood set to work on the badly damaged Nimbus 2000 that had won every game last year except for the one where Harry had been unconscious in the Hospital Wing, he began lecturing in an even tone about Broomstick care and abuse. Harry felt himself shrinking down to about an inch tall as the Scottish lad worked at the Nimbus 2000 with both Wand and hands, going on and on in that level and increasingly accented voice about how Harry of all people should have known better and how silly it was to be pulling someone else on a Broomstick that couldn’t keep up. Riding double was far better he said, easier on the fletching and the banding that held the tail on.

Harry and Ron sat down on stools at the counter while Oliver worked and talked. He was so absorbed in what he was doing, and was so busy lecturing, that he didn’t hear Darby come in and take up a stool next to Ron. Minding his manners, the small boy didn’t interrupt. Ron raised an eyebrow and stared silently at what he’d come back with, but Harry had his head down staring sideways at Wood. He was resting it on his folded arms and trying hard not to tear up as Wood lectured him. When he finally looked up, he didn’t even see Darby next to Ron.

“Wait a bit,” Wood thought hard, screwing up his face and then pulling out the newspaper from under the counter. He’d just finished with the tail of the Nimbus, and it was looking fit and fine once again.

“Er,” Harry began, but Wood swatted his arm with the paper.

“Here ‘an I thought ye was all kidnapped!” Wood yelled. “An’ then ya turns up in ‘ere? What gives, ‘Arry? Why the disguises? I wuz scared sick when yeh’s turned up gone! Whut wuz I ta do fer a Seeker then, if’n ya wuz gone?”

“Took you long enough to notice,” Ron added, grinning at him and brushing his long brown bangs out of his eyes. “I hate this haircut,” he complained, skillfully changing the subject in one smooth move.

“Yeh look like a bloody gang ‘o Muggles iz whut yeh look like,” Wood observed, just noticing Darby and his new pet. “Kin I help you, laddie?” He asked professionally, and Darby shook his head, his silver earring swinging.

“I’m not a Muggle!” He stated proudly. “I’ve been a Wizard for a whole two days now! I’m with them,” he added, pointing at Harry and Ron.

“Congratulations,” Wood observed, shrinking back a bit from the small boy, his voice quaking.

About then, Harry looked up. His eyes were a bit puffy from trying to not cry under Wood’s verbal assault, but the sight of Darby and his new pet shook him out of it fast.

Hanging from the boy’s cocked arm, upside down, was the large fruit bat that he’d stopped to pet when they’d first come in. “This is Vlad,” Darby announced proudly, “Ain’t he cool?!”

“Aye, he’s kewl, ah’right’,” Wood said, shrinking back further. “I hate bats! Bloodsuckin’ fiends, they is!”

“I think he’s wicked!” Ron added, which didn’t help Wood any.

Darby looked stunned, and Harry managed a smile. “No owl?” He asked, and Darby shook his head again.

“Everybody’s got an owl,” he stated proudly, “Besides, I wanna be different!”

“Yer diff’urnt, a’righ’,” Wood agreed, picking up Harry’s Nimbus just in case he needed a weapon.

“Don’t you hit my bat!” Darby snapped.

“I won’, long as ‘e don’ bite me!” Wood retorted, moving down to the far side of Harry. “Friend ‘o yurz?”

“Yes,” Harry said in a low voice, looking away. He was too ashamed and hurt to meet Wood’s gaze.

“He’s a fruit bat, anyways,” Darby defended Vlad, who blinked his huge orange eyes and squeaked at them. He then yawned and seemed to go back to sleep.

“He could just very well be as worthless as Scabbers, my rat,” Ron stated, observing the sleeping bat. “But then again, it is daylight out.”

“An’ speakin’ o’ daylights,” Wood began again, “Which yeh scared the daylights outta me, WHERE ‘av yeh’s been? Whut ‘r yeh doin’, runnin off like this?”

Harry opened his mouth, but he couldn’t speak. The pressure of being on the run in disguise, worried about finding Seamus and what might be coming in recovering him, combined with Wood’s lecturing him about the Nimbus 2000, was simply too much. He moved his jaw a few times, but gave up. His closely cropped blonde head fell back onto the counter between his folded arms with a loud KLUNK.

Wood stared at him, then looked down the counter. He looked back at the paper. He looked back at the three boys. Then it dawned on him. “Where’ Finnegan?” he asked.

Ron shrugged at him, pointing at Harry quickly and motioning to Wood to come closer. When he did, Ron whispered in his ear, “We don’t know. That’s why we ran away. Someone grabbed him and Harry’s almost gone mental over it. He’s determined to find him and bring him back. That and, er, you sorta hurt his feelin’s yellin’ at ‘im.”

Oliver Wood’s face fell. He was so serious when it came to his Quidditch and his job that he’d honestly not noticed how his speech had been affecting the boy. He hopped over the low counter and laid a hand on Harry’s shoulder, but the boy didn’t move. “Harry,” he said softly, “Harry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt yer feelin’s.”

Harry tried to push away his hand, but Wood tightened his grip on his shoulder. “Here, now,” he said, “None ‘o that,” as he pulled him upright.

Wood stared down at the smaller boy and smiled at him. That was all it took. Harry spun around and buried his face in Wood’s middle, finally losing control. He was crying again, but he didn’t care. He held onto the older boy tightly as Wood patted his back, obviously not sure of what to do with him.

Ron gestured at Darby, and the smaller boy nodded. They got up and headed towards the door. “I think you’d better talk to him, Oliver,” Ron advised. “Alone. We’re gonna go grab a bite, ‘k?”

Wood nodded, picking Harry up in his strong arms and hoisting him so that he could hold him. Harry locked his skinny legs about Wood’s waist and held onto him around the neck, crying on his shoulder. Very carefully so as not to drop him, Wood fingered his Wand and a WHOOSH of wind from its tip spun the OUT TO LUNCH sign on the front door around and locked it with a loud CLICK. He then carried Harry into the back room and let the boy cry it out, rocking him back and forth with one hand on the back of his head and the other about his waist. Then, almost shyly, he kissed by smaller boy right at his ear.

“It’s a’righ’, ‘Arry,” he comforted him. “I’m sorry. I jus’ thought … I thought yeh wuz … an’ then ya show up in ‘ere an’ … an’ yer Broomstick wuz so …”

But Harry didn’t hear all of what Oliver Wood was trying to tell him. All he felt was that soft kiss on his ear. All he heard was, ‘I’m sorry.’ And that was enough. Harry relaxed as Wood held him, feeling better than he had since Darby had arrived at the Weasley home with his news of Seamus’ abduction. The twisting feeling in the pit of his stomach finally dissipated, and his chest stopped hurting. Still, he didn’t want that warm embrace to end. He liked the feeling of being held, and something then dawned upon him: What if Wood, with his sense of propriety and authority, turned him in?

“Oliver,” Harry choked, finally finding his voice again, “Please don’t turn me in! I HAVE to do this! They don’t know what Voldemort is planning to do to Seamus! It has to be me, Oliver, I just know it. I’m the only one who can stop him! Please don’t turn me in,” Harry begged, clutching him tighter.

“Vold-er-HIM?!” Wood gasped, taking Harry by the chin and staring into his red, puffy eyes. “What’s HE got to do with this?”

“Voldemort grabbed Seamus, Oliver, he has help, and I think it’s Malfoy and his dad helping him!”

“Don’t say it out loud, ‘Arry!” Wood gasped again, gently shaking his chin as he so often did when he was trying to make a point on the Quidditch field. “You got proof?”

“Darby, the little Muggle-lookin’ kid with us, saw a white-haired boy and a man in black with a smoky cloud following him grab Seamus and Disapparate with him. He said they attacked him, too. You read about Darby in the paper too?”

Wood nodded. “Gone missin’ wit’ Seamus, presumed dead though. HE really is a Wizard then?”

Harry nodded. “I’m tryin’ to get ‘im ready for school because … because …,” but Harry was choking up again.

“Jus’ slow, down, ‘Arry,” Wood suggested. “Take a deep breath.”

Harry did that. “Because he’s all alone and … and … I might not be coming back.”

“I read the Prophet article,” Wood replied, shocked by Harry’s admission. “Darby is Seamus’ best friend, and they vanished together; then you and Ron. I read where Darby’s house burnt down, an’ he’s presumed drownded er burnt up s’ bad there’s nothin’ left ‘o him ter find. HOW didja do it, ‘Arry, ‘ow didja find the kid if’n You-Know-Who was on his tail? ‘Ow’d ‘e get away?”

“I have no clue, but he got away somehow,” Harry managed, shaking his head and trying to get it all out. “He got to Seamus’ house, and Seamus had already told him how to use the Floo to call me! I was at Ron’s when Darby’s voice come screamin’ out the Floo, and Mr. Weasley went in and got him an’ brought him back to us. He told us all about it. It’s Malfoy, Oliver, I KNOW it is!”

Wood shook his head. “Why do the Malfoys want Seamus though?” He interrupted.

“Because Seamus is … he’s … he’s Powerful, Oliver. He’s the most powerful Wizard to come along in 200 years.”

“Huh?” Oliver asked, obviously not knowing about Seamus’ emasculated state and his heightened Powers.

“That’s why he burns his eyebrows off all the time, he’d cahn’t control it,” Harry dodged, “And that’s why Voldemort is after him. He’s going to … he’s wants … to do to him what he did to Professor Quirrell last year!”

“Take him over?” Wood gasped, clutching Harry as if he might vanish into thin air. What had happened with Professor Quirrell was allegedly a complete secret, so therefore, the entire school knew about it. “Tha’s monstrous! He’s jus’ a little boy!”

Harry nodded, but he was choking up again. He hadn’t slept much over the past few nights, the Dursleys had been trying to starve him beforehand, and he was an absolute nervous wreck. Not to mention how worried he was about Ron and Darby following him. Despite the urgency of getting Oliver to not turn them in, Harry started crying again. “I HAVE to find him,” he gasped between sobs, “I have to, Oliver! Please don’t turn us in!”

“I won’t,” Wood promised, and really meaning it. “But you jus’ make sure ya come back in one piece, Harry. Ya knocked that evil son uv a bitch down two times ah’ready. Third time’s tha charm, they say! Maybe he wont’ come back again when ya do ‘im in this time!”

“I’ve only got ‘til tomorrow night, moonrise, to find him, though, and … and I don’t even know where to look now!”

“I’ll work on it fer ya,” Wood promised, “Ya need a Trackin’ Spell, ya do! After all, I’ve got a few more years o’ studyin’ under me belt than YOU do!”

Harry just shook his head, and Oliver tentatively kissed him again. “Seamus means a lot to you, doesn’t he?” He asked shyly.

Harry nodded, his tears soaking the older boy’s jersey.

“You like him, don’t’cha, ‘Arry?”

There was no point in hiding it. Harry nodded again, ashamed of himself and not knowing why. He felt Wood lifting his face by the chin again, and he blinked as the older boy pulled his glasses off and set them aside. “Yer gon’ta bend ‘em,” he advised, smiling down at Harry and shaking his head. “You make a cute little blonde, ya know that?”

“Huh?” Harry gasped in wonder.

“It’s OK if’n ya like Seamus, ‘Arry. I won’t think anythin’ bad ‘bout ya. You wanna know why?”

Harry nodded again, lost in the blur that was certainly his face. Without his glasses, though, he couldn’t tell what he was looking at.

“Because I … I … I like you too,” Wood fumbled, “Ever since I seen ya that firs’ time when McGonagall brought ya tuh me tuh play Seeker. I … I’ve wanted tuh … tuh touch you, ‘Arry,” he went on, lost for words. “It’s not like … I’m not … shit, ‘Arry, it’s not like I wanna just throw ya down an’ screw ya er sumthin’ nasty like that! Not like that a’tall! I jus’ wanna … always wanted tuh be close an’ hold ya an’…,” but Wood shook his head, afraid that the smaller boy was about to jump up and run away.

But Harry wasn’t about to run away. In fact, to Wood’s surprise, he showed no signs of going anywhere. Instead, he smiled back up at him and nodded. “I miss him so bad, Oliver,” he managed. “No one’s ever … I mean, the Dursleys don’t love me…”

As much as it embarrassed him, Harry went all to bits again. “It’s alright,” Wood assured him. “They’re idiots. They don’ know whut they got. You don’t ferget this, ‘Arry, no matter whut happens. YOU ARE LOVED, do ya get me?”

“B-but what if I forget Seamus again?” Harry moaned. “I dint hardly even SEE him all year long thanks to that damn Charm!”

“You don’ fergit love like that, ‘Arry,” Wood assured him. “THAT kind’o love leaves its own lastin’ Mark, ‘Arry, a Mark tha’s deeper than e’en yer scar.”

It was almost as Dumbledore had said it weeks ago, word for word, when he’d explained why Voldemort, in possession of Quirrell’s body, could not bear to touch Harry.

Harry managed a nod again as Oliver’s hand moved up his back, under his shirt. His touch sent shivers down the boy’s spine, and he managed to raise his head a bit and look him in the face. He was suddenly so very tired, and all he wanted to do was drift off. Drift off and wake up back Hogwart’s, back in his huge four-poster with Seamus cuddled up at his side and Voldemort somewhere far, far away and leaving them alone. He earnestly wished it were all over when Wood’s warm lips suddenly closed over his own. Those hands were touching him on the back, the chest, on his tummy. Wood tickled him a bit in the ribs, bringing a weak giggle from the smaller boy, despite how upset he was. When he pulled back from kissing him, Harry felt too weak to stand and let Oliver carry him to a large stack of soft packing materials.

He laid Harry down and gently pulled his shirt up over his head, folding it and setting it aside. He pulled Harry’s shoes and socks off, and deftly undid his shorts. In seconds, with no resistance, Harry was lying there in only his undershorts. Wood patted his tummy and gestured for him to roll over.

With seemingly practiced hands, Wood rubbed him down a bit roughly here and there, forcing his tensed muscles to relax. He pressed and kneaded, squeezed his shoulders, and rubbed his lower back just down to the waistband of his shorts. It felt wonderful.

“I have to confess, Harry,” Wood said awkwardly, “This isn’t the first time I’ve done this.”

“You put me to bed, sometimes, don’t you, when I fall asleep in the Common Room?” Harry asked in a slurred voice.

Wood nodded, his face flaming. “I’d never do anythin’ tho, nothin’ that wud…I mean, yer too little, ‘Arry, an’ it wuld’na be right ta…”

“Izz Oh’K,” Harry interrupted him, trying to sit up. Wood took him on his lap, rocking him gently back and forth. Harry sighed in contentment. Judging from Oliver Wood’s stature though, he probably WAS big enough to hurt him if he did try anything. Harry wasn’t sure that it would be the right thing to do though, even if he himself were bigger. It wouldn’t be fair to Seamus.

“I jus’ … it’s jus’ that I…,” Wood stammered, unsure of how to say it. “I don’ understand why I feel like this. It’s noh tha’ I go ‘round stalkin’ little boys! I jus’ like holdin’ ya, touchin’ ya.”

Jus’ hold me, Seamus had said, and Harry could once again hear his piping voice in his head. That pretty well summed up how he felt at that moment, and so he let Oliver Wood do just that until finally, emotionally and physically exhausted, he cried himself to sleep in his Quidditch Captain’s arms.

Wood tenderly laid him out, and covered him with a 4-XL sized Quidditch Robe. He tucked him in as best he could, as he’d done several times the past year, and softly kissed the sleeping boy’s tear-stained cheek.

“I’d do the same thing if’n I had someone like Seamus to love,” he whispered with a small pang of jealousy. He then quietly closed the door to the stock room and went back to work repairing Harry’s Nimbus 2000.

Some moments later, as Wood was just finishing up, the small bell on the door rang. Oliver looked up and automatically said, “Hi, kin I help ya?”

“As a matter of fact, you can,” a very familiar voice replied.

Wood’s jaw very nearly hit the floor as the refinished Nimbus 2000 began to tremble in his hands.