Disclaimer: Harry Potter and his world belongs to J. K. Rowling

Part 3/Chapter 16

There were a couple more carefully chosen social events that Pat and Bellamy went to, without incident. Word spread that the great wizard was circulating again, and more invitations came flooding in.

The girls came home from school, and now, when he went for a morning ride, he was surrounded with a tribe of children, though never Lesley or Mary, who didn't think much of horses. Susan rode Sirius, claiming pride of place next to her father. "I'm giving Sirius to Margaret as a wedding present," she told her father. "I'm always at school, and afterwards, I'll probably be leaving home, and there won't be much chance to ride in London."

John stared straight ahead. "I wish you didn't have to go to school," he said finally. "I never get a chance to know you."

Susan said in a matter-of-fact tone. "We have to go to school, and next summer holidays, you probably won't waste it by getting sick." She smiled at him. He was looking sad, "And afterwards, even if I do leave home, I'll be able to apparate and come home whenever I want."

He sighed, but said, "It's very special to have a family, I'm very lucky."

Ryan and Ross were on grey ponies, matching and very attractive, but they were left well behind when they galloped, and they looked at Oliver, who rode Sparks, with considerable jealousy. Sparks was fast, as fast as Sherese whom Luke rode, though she was still far too big for the boy.

Later that day, Sidney found Oliver with fists raised, facing both Ryan and Ross, each with wands drawn. The blistering rebuke left both his young sons feeling very small, and their wands were confiscated until their return to school. But Oliver didn't like what he said, either, that they should be ashamed of themselves, threatening a squib who couldn't defend himself! Oliver had had every intention of defending himself. They were both going to be beaten to a pulp!

Oliver spent a lot of time with Victor that day, also a 'squib.' Victor, in the end, sent him to the boss and told him to ask for boxing lessons. But that wasn't a help as, while John agreed to give him some practice, he had an attack of dizziness as he dodged the boy's flying fists, and Oliver connected, to his own consternation, and the boss wound up with a blood nose.

John shook his head as the buzzing in his head receded, and cleaned himself with magic. But Oliver stood erect and declared that it was a barbaric sport, and he wouldn't have anything to do with it any more.

Bellamy grinned at him, and agreed. "Each one of my wives went crook whenever I was tempted into a fight, and they were quite right. It is barbaric, and only a barbarian would find it fun!"

It was only after Oliver went off, that he reflected on what he had said, but he couldn't even see an image of his wives' faces in his memory. Luna was buried in the walled garden, and he went there and touched the stone tablet. It seemed so sad, that no-one alive remembered her.

The following morning was Christmas Eve. Pat woke early, surprised to find her husband already out of the house. She showered and dressed quickly. Snow was falling, and it was very cold. He could still collapse and must not be allowed to lie outside, alone in the cold.

She found him at the Old Horses' Paddocks, just leaning against one of the solid fences, Badham and Cloud snuffling at him. He greeted her, and pointed to the east. It was still half dark, but the sun was beginning to show above the horizon.

"Just a year ago," he said. "It was at dawn, and I found myself here and still didn't know it was home."

Pat said, surprised, "You were here all day?"

"I watched all day, but I didn't recognise anyone or anything. But then, you came."

It was very cold, and even Trey was still inside, but Pat waited with her husband as the sun rose, before saying that he should come in for breakfast.

Two hours later, John wandered again, as he'd wandered, but hiding from people, a year ago. He found Oliver wrapped in a wizard cape, but still shivering, staring at graves in the small cemetery. "The Bournes say they're all going to be aurors," he said, in a casual tone.

John said, "Unlikely. Kupec told me you have to have top marks to be an auror, or some other extraordinary ability to make up, and then you only have to have very good marks."

Oliver said with satisfaction, "I don't think their marks are very good."

John smiled to himself. It must be hard to grow up among wizards, and be different.

Oliver pointed to a grave. "That's Chris Barnes. Mum says he came to work for you when he was just nineteen. And that's Simon Barnes, his son, and Naomi Wiley, his wife, and that's Beau Barnes, Simon's brother, and Sybil, his wife."

It was an honest to God memory, and Bellamy shared it with Oliver. "My second wife, Luna, had just died, and I went walking in London, because it hurt too much, and I didn't know what to do with myself. There was a group of youths, like a street gang, but they weren't bad kids." He smiled to himself. "Anyway, I offered to fight them all, one at a time. I got knocked out in the end, of course, but then they picked me up and looked after me, especially Chris and Pete, his brother. Afterwards, I told them if ever they wanted a job, to come and see us. So they did."

"They were Medj, weren't they?"

John frowned. As suddenly as it had come, the memory of them had gone. But he still knew what he'd remembered, and said, "Medj, yes. Chris was with me all his life, and Peter for several years before he married and left. I never had better friends."

Oliver said, almost timidly. "Does it matter that I've got no magic? I want to work for you, too."

John said, "I'd be honoured," and Oliver smiled, comforted.

In the afternoon, Oliver was taken to Steve's place. He didn't want to join the other young ones who partied in the indoor arena. This time, there was an adult present, as two of the girls, over from Paul's place, were only quite small.

Susan and Marcus, on the other hand, deemed themselves too old for children's parties, and amused themselves in a different way, in a magically warmed haystack.

Christmas Day, and Pat said how wonderful the bedspread was that her husband had bought her, and spread it over the bed, smoothing it lovingly. John was pleased, and Pat was grateful that he never read minds, as he undoubtedly could. But the bedspread really was rather magnificent, and if she re-did the bedroom in dark, panelled wood, it would set it off nicely. And she told herself that subtle florals were really quite insipid, after all.

Old Clare grunted, almost in a surly fashion, as she opened her package and spread out the scarlet cape. But she put it round her shoulders and wore it for the rest of the day. Others of his chosen gifts raised eyebrows, but not one of the recipients gave a hint that they were not overjoyed. Even redheaded Margaret said that the deep pink dressing gown was wonderful, though the sight of it on her, when she looked in the mirror, had her covering her eyes in horror at the clashing colours.

Boxing Day, and Margaret, quite untypically, became terribly nervous. Susan and Gabrielle had their work cut out, keeping her calm and getting her dressed for her wedding. Archie, in unfamiliar tuxedo, waited for her in a large and fancy car, his wedding gift to the couple. Bellamy's place was deserted, but no-one came to disturb the peace, and when Forster raced toward the apparation zone, as usual, it was only in the silly dog's imagination.

The wedding ceremony was a religious one, as befitted the heir to a dukedom, and the lengthy sermon was the same as a far too long speech. But John managed to conceal his hatred of speeches, and behaved very well. Trey had been left behind, but he was seeing so much better now that it didn't matter. Once committed, Margaret's nerves left her, and her parents both became a little emotional as they watched her shining happiness as she promised herself to the nice young man who'd been buzzing around most of the year.

Pam Lockwood was a little teary, too, but part of that was because it wasn't a big society wedding with eight hundred guests, as she'd always planned for her only child.

All the witches and wizards were dressed conventionally, but old Clare, who was Medj, wore her scarlet cape. It didn't matter. Everyone knew that artists were eccentric, and old artists even more so. As soon as word got out that this was Clare de Silva, she had a constant procession of visitors, taking the chair next to her, where she sat in state. She was moderately rude to most, with the odd result that she became a high favourite.

John hadn't taken any bodyguards. He pointed out to Margaret that Peter, Sidney, and Archie were all very competent, and Therese and Katrina had been aurors themselves. Pat had agreed with him this time, as Kupec and Jeremy, for instance, standing always close, would be very conspicuous.

"I'll miss her," he said, as they watched the bride and groom drive off in their new car. "She's such a strong personality."

Pat remarked, "I don't think Pam Lockwood thinks her strong personality such a great thing." But Norm Lockwood was murmuring to his wife, and she replaced her sour expression with a bright, artificial smile, and ordered the musicians to strike up another waltz.

Lesley, in medj dress chosen by Margaret, told her father he had to dance with her. John hesitated, decided that he did, after all, know how to dance, and agreed.

The following day, Susan turned seventeen. She was of age, and Archie took her out to the apparation zone to start to learn the vital skill. She was going to a party of young people in the afternoon, with Marcus, but she had to take an apparation test before she was allowed to apparate, and the skill was not easy to learn.

December twenty-eighth. Pat had debated about this party. But her Henry had always been a sociable creature, and he had to know the people of his world. Like Dieter, she marvelled at how well he remembered names, and understood, even more than Dieter did, how much effort he put into it.

The McRae sisters were well known intellectuals of the wizarding world. Henry Bellamy had also been a well known intellectual of the wizarding world, for over a hundred years, and there would be probably a dozen witches and wizards present, with whom he used to enjoy discussing various esoteric magical phenomena. Was it time to re-open that world for him? She conferred with Dot McRae. His 'epilepsy' had to be made known, and arrangements made to bring him home if necessary. Peter Barnes would go, simply so that he could apparate with Bellamy, even unconscious, if it became necessary.

For a while, the party didn't seem to be a successful choice. John listened attentively to the deep discussions that he'd once loved and often led, but the background was lost, and he could not participate. After a while, he went to the window and looked out on a snow covered Scottish landscape. There was a hill, and children screaming in joyful terror as they tobogganed down it. Quietly, he slipped out, only missed, after a while, by Peter, Pat as deeply involved as the rest of them. Her knowledge of magic was extensive, even though she'd never, herself, even raised a wand.

When Peter tapped her on the shoulder, she was alarmed for a moment, but his grin dispelled her alarm. He took her outside and pointed. Whooping as loudly as any of the children, her husband, the great wizard, hurtled down the snow covered slope on a toboggan, probably conjured by himself, since it was in that red-orange colour that he adored. 'It's the colour of happiness,' he'd told her once.

Dot and Winnie McRae joined her, and laughed. "He may have lost a lot," Dot said, "But he has a lot, too. He's a lucky man."

Pat nodded. No-one else could enjoy themselves as her husband could enjoy himself.

"I'll stay out here, and watch," said Peter. "Just in case."

It was not until the children were gone, two hours later, that John's toboggan carried him back to the grownup party, gliding gently along the level, and even up the mild slope to the house. "Lovely party," he told the McRae sisters, his eyes twinkling as they took their leave. Peter apparated with Pat, as John, although happy to apparate himself, was again experiencing those times when his head buzzed and he became dizzy. He would not take a passenger, except for Trey, who still went with him most places.

On New Year's Eve, again they were out, Susan, Pat, Bellamy, at a party hosted by Louise's parents, Homer Stackpole and Josie, his wife. Kitty was Homer's sister, and she and Sidney were also there. Josie didn't bother about restraint, and gave her old boss a hug the moment they arrived. John had come to like this sort of greeting. He knew where he was when someone hugged him, though he was grateful that Josie didn't cry over him, as some people he met, did.

The party was going well, and John only paused a few minutes as the familiar buzzing in his head came and went. Over the next hour, it happened again, and then twice more, and with less time between. It was probably nothing, but he murmured to Pat that he'd like to go home, now. Pat didn't waste time, apologising for their early departure, and rising to leave immediately.

John stood also, and tried to disguise his dizziness by holding hard to a chair, so that he wouldn't stagger. The panic rose in him. He wanted to hide. He didn't want to be seen. He must not apparate, not like this, but how he wished he could hide. But then he was on the floor, crying out with agony and throwing himself about, uselessly fighting the agonising pain, as people stared in horror.

After a little, he was able to lie still, and just endure.

Pat spoke to Josie, who pointed to a bedroom, and Homer gently picked him up and settled him on the bed. Pat crossed her fingers, but he didn't start fitting, and she very gently put a blanket over him. Homer made a silencing shield, and lowered the light. Pat apologised to Josie, and said that he'd probably be all right in a while. "He'll be mortified," she said. "He hates people seeing him like that."

Homer said, "It was the Cha Keeyo Curse, and he came back. It could not be expected that he would be as good as new."

John lay still, and endured. There was nothing else to do. It was not quite two hours, and he fainted. Pat, checking on him every few minutes, took a deep breath of relief.

Louise's sister, Carrie, plus a few other younger guests, had almost forgotten that a sick man lay in a guest room. Instead, as the clock struck in the new year, and balloons were released, both Louise and Carrie were soundly kissed by a pair of nephews of Josie, two lanky, redheaded Weasleys.

I'll take him home," said Homer.

Pat nodded. She knew Homer well. He was an auror, and had been a bodyguard as well. He'd even suffered for it once, when three aurors and Bellamy had been poisoned. That was when Kupec's father had been killed, though she doubted anyone had reminded him of that. But they waited until everyone else was gone before Homer picked him up.

John woke in his own bed, and, as Pat had known, felt very deeply mortified. The pain was gone and he felt quite normal, except rather shaky, as he always did after an attack. He slipped from the bed and showered. Pat was sound asleep.

He dressed, just a pair of jeans and a jumper, remembered shoes, and threw a cape over his shoulders.

Trey whined at him as he stepped outside the house into the bitterly cold night, but he only told the dog that he needn't come. Trey followed him anyway, and, unusually, so did Wilma. He wasn't surprised that Forster also followed. That dog wouldn't have the sense to stay in the warm. He only wanted to feel the night, and enjoy the way the Christmas lights sparkled. Except that there were Christmas lights where there shouldn't have been, and he followed them, fascinated. The lone, sick man, staggering sometimes, even after he conjured himself a cane. There were Christmas lights on the fence, no, through the fence, and he found one of the stiles over a gate and climbed over, though both Trey and Wilma barked at him. Wilma had trouble pulling herself over the stile, and Forster was clumsy, and wound up with his snout covered in snow.

Sidney was patrolling, but the dogs sounded no alarm and he wasn't seen.

Pat stirred and put out a hand to check that Henry was all right. With sudden alarm, she sat up in bed. She looked for him, in the bathroom, the loungeroom, the library. She was nearly running now, looking desperately through the house, leaving lights on everywhere she went. Breathlessly, she checked the swimming pool, scanning the depths, frightened that he'd gone swimming and drowned, and then the spa, scarcely used now, except by Archie and Ursula, sometimes. Pat gave up and rang the alarm. He was somewhere outside in the freezing night, and must be found.

Meantime, John went on and on, staggering sometimes, not querying why the Christmas lights that danced in front of him should be so clear, even though it was snowing. It was still firm underfoot, the snow not yet deep.

After a long time, the Christmas lights went out for him, and he looked around. He was in a thick grove of trees, and trees were his friends. He curled up under the nearest tree and went to sleep. Forster sniffed at him, then pointed his muzzle to the sky and howled. It was dawn. Dawn came late in the middle of winter. Wilma snuggled down next to him, and so did Trey. Forster went on howling, crying his misery to the new day.

The property was searched again and again, but the snow wiped out all footprints and turned everything white. They searched further, taking horses and dogs, now going off the property. Paul Pickering, his household and his staff, added their manpower. Pat started making phone calls, the tiny village hospital, people they knew, still reluctant to ask for the help of medj police.

Forster's howls gradually penetrated the sleep of the woman who lived close. She was irritable, not wanting to wake yet, not after the late night party. But there's something very unrestful about the cries of a miserable dog, and she finally rose, grumbling, and went to have a look. Maybe the poor thing was trapped, somehow.

Forster's howling turned to excited barking when she approached, his whole rump wagging with his tail as he dashed to her, and dashed back to the body in the snow. Trey rose to his feet and barked too. Poor Wilma had died, just a few minutes before. Joanne Boag was sure the snow covered man was dead, but raised the head from the snow, where it lay. She held her hand over his mouth, and could feel no breath, she tried to find a pulse in his wrist, and then his neck, and could feel nothing. She didn't hurry as she trudged back to her home to report that there was a dead man on her land.

Ursula, at home, waited, and watched the RAB. He was still alive, but he must be outside somewhere in the cold as he was only barely alive. There were more searchers now, searching very thoroughly, methodically crossing the property, only a few yards apart, Lockwood's people, Paul's people, and several aurors, all those whom Pat had been able to contact and knew how to find the property. Even now, she was reluctant to sacrifice the secrecy of the place.

Bryce waited with Pat, and together, they went over the house again, very thoroughly. Bryce knew a spell that revealed where there might be secret rooms, and he found a secret bedroom and a secret portion of the library, and then another room that Pat had never seen. A boy's treasures, and very large posters of Bellamy from a long time before. "It could have been Adrian's," Pat said doubtfully. But Bellamy was nowhere to be found.

"I wish we had the RAB 2," said Bryce, "We'd find him straightaway."

Pat looked sadly at him. Even now, she thought, he didn't seem to have the slightest feeling that placing a location device actually within the body of his subject, was unethical.

Dead bodies were not supposed to be disturbed, and Joanne only went back and looked again. She didn't move the dead dog, and the weight and remaining warmth of Wilma helped keep John alive. Police and ambulance arrived together, and the ambulance men, too, thought that the snow covered man was dead. Police unhurriedly took some photographs, and then, finally, Bellamy was lifted from the snow.

"No identification," said a policeman, checking his pockets. An ambulance man again put a stethoscope inside the jumper, to try and find a heartbeat.

"He just might be alive," he said very doubtfully. But they hurried then. If he was alive, there was no time to be lost.

Even the doctor was unsure at first whether John was alive or dead. They'd let the dogs come, Trey and Forster, and they'd been fed and warmed, and petted, though Wilma had been left to lie.

Two hours later, the nurse was asked how the John Doe was doing. But the John Doe frowned, and said, "I'm not John Doe. My name is Henry Bellamy."

She shook him, trying to wake him properly, but it seemed he'd said all he was going to say.

A few hours later, he touched his own cheek, and an alarm rose in him. He must not, and he whimpered in sudden fear. Trey jumped on the bed, lay down beside him, and he caressed his dog and settled down. The elderly doctor prescribed the best treatment possible in that small village hospital. No drips, no injections, no restraints, just warmth and his surviving dogs, who had saved his life.

At home, they still didn't know where he was, but they knew he was no longer in danger.

When he opened his eyes, finally, as night fell again, his nurse noticed and came to him. He was the only patient, which worried him for a moment, but his nurse just said 'Hello,' told him where he was, and asked if there was someone she could contact for him. "My name's Rebecca," she said. The very name was a reassurance, and he gave the phone number of his home without hesitation.

He was curled up again, asleep, when Pat and Bryce entered the room. Forster barked loudly, raced to Pat, and then back to Bellamy's bed, as if to show off his achievement. Bellamy had a hand on the back of Trey, and Pat regarded him. "It looks like I've been replaced by a dog," she said.

John opened his eyes and smiled at her. "I followed the Christmas lights," he said.

Pat looked at him with exasperation. "It seems you followed them twenty-five miles!"

They'd brought the panel van, Bryce showed an identification which persuaded Rebecca to release the patient into their custody, and Bryce steered him in the direction of the door. He balked suddenly. "Where's Wilma?" he asked. "Wilma was with me, too."

Pat looked questioningly at Rebecca. "There was another dog," she said. "But it was dead."

"Wilma's dead?" asked John, plaintively.

"The three dogs saved your life," said Rebecca. "They stayed close and kept you warm as best they could, and then the Dalmatian howled until someone came to investigate. But the one on your chest, she was dead."

John took a long, shuddering breath. "I've messed up badly, haven't I?"

Pat said, "We'll pick her up and bring her home, too. She should be buried with the other special pets."

John was normal again, and deeply ashamed of himself. There had been so many searching, so many worried, and his old dog died for him.

Pat's heart bled for him. She tried to tell him it was not his fault, that he was sick. But he seemed to think he hadn't been sick when he'd followed imaginary lights for miles, his three dogs at his heels.

"I'm too much trouble," he told Pat. "I should just go away."

Pat hugged him and tried to reassure him, but he was convinced that she couldn't possibly want a sickly invalid, who couldn't even see. His sight was gone again, and somehow, the brief interval when he'd been able to see more independently seemed to have interfered with his other way of seeing. It didn't take long, but for a few days, he was nearly blind, no matter whether a dog walked at his heels, or whether he was surrounded by people. He still could 'see' people, but it was only a knowing of who was there, and where they stood.

It was Mary who ensured that he wouldn't leave home, in order to save them trouble. She firmly took him by the hand, and took him to Alison's office. Alison would not be back from the Christmas break for another couple of days, but Mary knew where they were filed, all the thank you letters that he never looked at. But she told him he had to sit, and he had to listen, and for an hour, she read them to him, one after another. The people whose lives he had changed, who were hardly ever allowed to linger long enough to thank him in person, because it wasted time and made him uncomfortable. They were always told to write a letter if they wanted to thank him, and many of them did.

And then she told him, very clearly, that it was not just because he could help people, but because he was loved and needed, by his family, and by his friends. He was not too much trouble. She hugged him, and said, "You came back to us. Don't ever, ever think of going away.

Humbly, he said, "I'm sorry, Mary. I won't go away if you don't want me to."

There was laughter in the village pub, when word spread. Young Mr. Bellamy had become very drunk, New Year's Eve, wandered off and passed out in the snow. Rescued just in time. One said, "You can't blame him, when he knows he hasn't much time to live."

Another said, "Celia told me he's in remission, but it's inevitable, of course." They were quiet, and then someone said they should drink to poor young Mr. Bellamy. There were more drinks then, more laughter, more gossip, but, although a few became drunk, no-one else was foolish enough to go to sleep in the snow.

Susan, Lesley and Mary had to go back to school. Pat had an arm around her husband, as they piled into the bus that Sidney was driving, the boss's three girls, Sidney's boys, and there were some to be picked up from next door, as well. Tentatively, he said to Pat, "Mary said I wasn't too much trouble, that I should stay."

It troubled Pat that he still needed the reassurance, but she gave him what he needed, and then said that they should have a spa together, that a spa was very relaxing. There was an alarm she could press now, and Peter and Archie would be there in an instant. But the lockable door would, most certainly, not be locked.

Twice, an attack of pain had been followed by an interval of confusion, but the second time, it hadn't lasted a long time. They didn't lock the front door, Pat said that he must not feel confined in any way, but an alarm was put on it that would ring in the bedroom, so that he wouldn't slip out of the house again without waking Pat. He knew it was there, and said nothing, shamed, and knowing it was justified.

Gabrielle found John a couple of days later, straight after his morning ride. He was to go to see Clare. The old lady wanted him. There was a well made path to Clare's little house, routinely cleared of snow or puddles every morning, and with a railing leading right along it. There were other paths, too, wherever an elderly person might like to walk. Clare was nearly ninety, but she was not the first to live out a long life at Bellamy's place.

Clare was wearing her scarlet cape again. She was rarely seen out of it, and when Gabrielle asked why she'd never worn one before, she just said that no-one had ever given her one before. But now she looked at John severely, told him that she was no longer as fit as she was, and she needed a bigger studio, because it was too hard these days to paint outdoors as she'd always preferred.

"Whatever you want," said John.

She pointed to an unoccupied house not far away. "It's where Beau and Sybil used to live, and I want it done straightaway. It doesn't matter if things are conjured, as your conjures will last longer than I will!"

John asked, "How long do conjures last?"

Clare hesitated, and Gabrielle answered. "Furniture mostly a few months, clothing seldom more than a few hours, things like blankets likewise, but, of course, you're different, and Pat told me that your conjures last at least seventy years."

There were walls to be removed, and Gabby held him up, insisting that Archie be consulted, as she didn't want the house falling down. But once Archie had his say, John had a wonderful time, removing walls, conjuring furniture to Clare's specifications, and, on Gabby's suggestion, turning two adjoining bedrooms into a show-room for paintings for sale.

"I can sell them for you then, Clare, and you won't be pestered by people wanting to buy paintings when you're doing something else," said Gabby.

Clare grunted, "Good." and declared, "I'm not doing London exhibitions any more, far too much trouble."

Gabby said peaceably, "Well, if you wind up with too many paintings, I can always do it for you."

"I've got a list. I need more supplies. I want all new things for here." She looked around in satisfaction.

"Decoration?" asked John. "It needs a bit of colour."

Gabby looked at Clare. Clare said, "It all has to be light beige, because the walls and furnishings can't be distracting." She looked at his disappointed face. "You can make the kitchen bright red, though, if you want."

John grinned. "I do know that other colours exist." The kitchen wasn't all bright red - it became deep violet and intense blue, to Gabby's amusement, though Clare only laughed.

"Now!" said Clare. "I want Gabby to go away, because I'm talking to the boss."

Obediently, Gabby went away, and John sat in the chair Clare pointed at. He became uncomfortable, as, for a moment, old Clare just studied him.

Abruptly, she said, "You made an awful fool of yourself the other night. Messed up bad!"

John nodded, feeling a relief. He had messed up very badly, and still felt guilty, but everyone just said that it was all right and it was not his fault.

Clare continued. "They woke me up to search the house, and a lot of the searchers were tired from New Year's Eve parties, and some had hangovers, even."

John nodded. They'd gone to so much trouble and he wasn't worth it.

"Killed the dog you loved," announced Clare.

John nodded again.

"Come back to my house," said Clare. "I'm making you some coffee." There was a brand new, dry, soft tan path from the new studio/show-room to Clare's home. Archie and Peter were conferring on exactly how to make a railing that would lead along its edge, and where openings were needed. Clare looked at them, and grunted.

She set coffee in front of him, and then a plate of scones. "Louise brought them over this morning," she said.

John accepted one, and piled jam and cream on it. "She's a great cook, young Louise," he said.

Clare said, "Has it ever occurred to you that I've lived here nearly all my life? Yet I'm not related, I've never worked for you, and neither did my husband. Caradoc and I pay a sum towards our upkeep, but I doubt if you know, or if you would ever have asked for a contribution."

"I like you here. You're a part of home."

"I'm a lot of trouble. You renovated a house for me this morning, and didn't even think twice. Gabby, or someone else, brings over meals if I don't want to go to the dining room, and there's always someone to help me carry equipment, or do anything else I want. Gabby cleans my house for me."

John was waiting, unsure what she was getting at.

Clare looked into his face, and spoke very firmly. "I'm a lot of trouble, but it's like I'm family, and no-one begrudges it. These days, because you're sick quite often, and foolish sometimes, you're a lot of trouble. Do you really think you're not worth it? Do you really think anyone thinks you're not worth it?"

John said hesitantly, "I don't know." He looked down. "They say it's a miracle, that it's like nothing happened. Sometimes, people treat me with respect, and they refer to me as the great wizard. It makes me feel like a fraud. There's a big hole in my head, and while I'm not mindless, like I was supposed to be, I don't think I'll ever be the way I was." He looked up at her. "You're the first one who's acknowledged how stupid I was that night. I don't think I was sick then. I just followed the lights I saw, and never thought of doing anything else. It was irresponsible, and caused everyone worry. I don't know why Pat puts up with me when I'm a shell."

Clare smiled at him. "You're our Bellamy, and we want you."

But John still looked unhappy. "Even that. I've got used to being called Bellamy, but in my own mind, I'm just John, the prisoner, though now free. In a way, it was easier being a prisoner, because I had no responsibilities. If I felt like destroying cameras, or being stupid enough to get shot, I just did. Even now, in my own mind, I've lived almost twice as long as a prisoner, than I have here."

"You're right. people don't quite realise. Not that there's much point in reminding them. If they want to give you respect you think you don't deserve, I wouldn't knock it back! There's lots of us never get respected. Count yourself lucky!"

John laughed. Of course he should count himself lucky. And it was odd, but because Clare acknowledged that he'd been stupid, and maybe too because he'd spoken more openly about how he felt, it was like there was a weight off his mind. He'd been involved with Clare too long, and missed lunch, but only turned up in the kitchen, and Kitty provided him with a lunch. Maybe he was a lot of trouble, and maybe he didn't deserve it. But Clare said it was all right.

**x**

Oliver went to his father, who thought, and spoke to Victor, then to Pat and the boss. Oliver's point was a good one. The Bourne boys all had Defence Practise. They practised spells to defeat an opponent, to disable an opponent, and to tie him up. He was the same age, and he should be taught to use a rifle, as Pat and Victor could.

Pat's first thought was of some horror - a twelve year old boy taught to use weapons that could be lethal? But she lived among wizardry now, and from the age of eleven, their children were given wands and taught to use them. Magic could be lethal. Oliver was a serious and responsible boy. She and Victor would teach Oliver to use firearms. And just as the Bournes had their wands when they rode with Bellamy, maybe Oliver should be allowed to wear a handgun, as she did herself, made light and inconspicuous by magic.

Oliver's Defence Lessons started the following day, using the indoor arena. There was a silencing shield around, and it was out of sight of stray visitors. As soon as he was competent, he could start to wear a handgun. Steve didn't know anything about it. There was a large part of Oliver's life that Steve, the medj, could not share.

John could see reasonably again, and regularly joined Steve and Oliver when they had their riding lessons with Victor. Snow was quite deep, but a jumping course was set up in the indoor arena. The boys were practising on Storm, on Sparks, and on Maguire, amicably taking turns on the palomino, who, as Marcus had said, was expert at the novelty events.

***chapter end***