Bellamy, Part 2

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

Chapter 1:

There were ten workers in the vineyard in the South of France, most of them backpackers, seven men and three women. It was hot work, and they wore the minimum of clothing. Most of the men were bare-chested, tanned with exposure to the sun.

One called, "Eh, Jean! Lunch!"

The young man didn't hear, just continuing to work methodically, at the simple, manual task he'd been allotted. They called him Jean, because when they'd asked his name the first time, he said it was Jean. It was not a deliberate decision not to use his own name, and if they'd asked him again the day after, it's probable he would have given a different name. The man who had called went to him, and tapped him on the shoulder. Left to himself, Jean probably wouldn't notice it was lunch-time.

They thought he was simple, but he worked hard, and was young, clean and goodlooking. He'd become something of a mascot, even if he did need looking after. He rarely spoke, but seemed happy, and was no longer as thin as he'd been six weeks before, when he'd been hired. They speculated sometimes on his past, but when questioned he would just stare blankly, and maybe start to wander off.

But there were scars - on his face, on his body, and, most intriguing of all, a couple of circular white bands around his wrists, as if he'd been tied up for a long time once, or maybe tied far too tightly. A watch on each wrist had always previously concealed those scars. But a mugging had left him without his watches, and without his glasses, which were broken and forgotten. His fat wallet had been checked and thrown back at him with a grunt of disgust. "Empty!" After a while, he'd put his wallet back in his pocket, and wandered off again. Everything was blurry without his glasses, but he was a crazy man now. It was obvious to him that a crazy man was not going to be able to see clearly.

After work, the men went to their communal showers, leading off from the dormitory. Bellamy was with them, doing what they all did. One of the men noticed that he had yet another scar, a puckered purple mark high up on his inner thigh. None of the men had ever taken any notice of the moneybelt that now lay with his clothing and towel. It was not heavy, and the pockets in it appeared small, but were magically capacious. Capacious enough for a very large amount of money, spare documents, and one even contained half a dozen diamonds.

"Coming with us to the inn, Jean?" one asked.

Bellamy nodded. He always did what the others did. When he dressed, he put on an incredibly bright, red-orange shirt. The others winced at the brightness of that shirt, which never seemed to fade, no matter how often it was washed. But it made him happy, and they liked to see him happy. They hadn't thought much about it until one day they gave him too much to drink, and after a while, his eyes had started to run with tears. He could not be comforted, and could not tell them what was wrong. They put him to bed, but he'd wandered off in the middle of the night. He was found in the morning, asleep next to the high fence that surrounded the vineyard. They only let him have lemonades now. Even those who tended the bar of the small inn, knew to give him lemonades, no matter what he asked for. And he'd always thank them gravely, as if that was exactly what he wanted. They thought him a sweet boy. And in spite of his rather thin face, and the white strands in the long hair that he wore in a ponytail, something about his innocent, unfocused gaze made them think of him as a boy.

Claude was referring to Sven, one of their number who was off with the only single woman amongst the work crew. "Lucky bastard," they said. Inge was gorgeous.

The conversation turned to sex. Bellamy didn't contribute, just relaxed in his chair, enjoying the sensations of cheerful warmth that surrounded him. Three times he was addressed before he noticed. He was being teased. They had decided he was probably a virgin, and now they were quizzing him. To the direct question, he looked confused, and replied that he didn't know, that he didn't think so. As he often forgot his bodily need for food, he also no longer seemed to feel the need for sex. He no longer thought of his past - he didn't think much at all, only doing what he was told, or following random impulse, like the impulse that had brought him here in the first place, still bruised from the mugging, and half-starved.

His companions were in conference, laughing, planning. Bellamy had forgotten them, and wandered off to the window, looking at the night. The generous lady who worked at the bar was consulted, and she looked speculatively at the boy staring out the window. Marie had an ample body, was no longer young, and was free with her favours. No-one thought these days about the possibilities of disease from casual sex, as the annual REF injections had eliminated that worry, and even contraception was finally improved.

Marie laughed, nodded her head, and Pierre took her place at the bar, assuring her that he was very experienced at bar-tending. For the next half hour, some very strange drinks were poured, but as he mostly forgot to charge for them, there were no complaints.

Meantime, Marie walked over to Jean, and he looked at her, surprised, before a rare smile lit his face.

They asked her about it after. Did she think it was his first time? Did he seem to know what to do? But Marie would only smile and said very little, only mentioning that he had a beautiful body, and then she took him over a wine. She thought he deserved it.

Jean's workmates were very interested in how he'd fared, but he only gave his usual, slightly confused stare when quizzed. Claude began to suspect that he sometimes used that stare quite deliberately to discourage questions. The work gang came here every evening, Marie was thinking, and somehow, she'd begun to be sure that Jean was not at all simple-minded. He was obviously not quite right, but it was more complicated than a slow mind. Two or three times a week after that, Jean would be invited to the room of Marie, somewhat to the jealousy of those who had suggested it in the first place. She arranged a more professional replacement at the bar than Pierre, though.

A month later, and the work was coming to an end. The work crew was disbanding. The boss was consulted, and agreed to keep Jean. He was a useful worker, and needed to be looked after. But Jean didn't appear to understand that he was to stay, and when Claude, Pierre, Sven and the rest, packed their bags to go, he too put his few clothes in his backpack, and walked away.

Beth worried about her father that winter. But she'd made a vow to leave him to work out his own destiny. It was going to take a long time, she thought. She made a daily check on him, though she'd begun to wonder whether she should even do that. It only upset her, and he was not really likely to die. There should still be plenty of money in his wallet, and there was a fortune in his moneybelt. And he never did appear to feel the cold much.

Bellamy still had plenty of money in his wallet. It was not expensive living when he mostly forgot to eat, and lay down to sleep wherever he happened to be when darkness fell. People tried to look after him now and then, taking him to warm shelters, and pointing him in the direction of food. Sometimes he'd stay around for a few weeks, but then one day he'd be gone.

The Ministry, with Kate in charge, wanted to know where he was. They were sure that Beth could tell them, but she would only say he was alive. The delegation to her island home consisted of Kate, Tom, and her half brother, Adrian. And she explained again that he would undoubtedly return to them one day, but that right now, his home and his family were too hard for him to bear. Even if they found him, they should leave him alone. She totally refused to give them the slightest clues as to how he was living, and where he was living.

Her own words to her family persuaded her. From now on, she would stop checking on him. He had to be quite alone. She was sure that she would know, in any case, if he was badly hurt, or dying. She'd come for him then, but otherwise, he was to be on his own.

Alex, no longer fit enough for work as an auror, was offered the job of trying to find Bellamy. Hospital and police records all over the world were scanned, looking for the name of Henry Bellamy, Harry Potter, or variations of those two names. From some areas, it took months to get the lists, although hospital and police records in Britain were checked daily. When names of interest were found, additional checks would be made, work records, tax records, passenger lists.

They tried getting one of the aurors whom he knew well, to send out a pretend distress call. Maybe he'd come to their help. But either Bellamy didn't hear, or was not deceived. He did not appear.

By the time Bellamy had been gone a year, Clarence Holmes was again beginning to make himself very rich, using the telepathic cure originally invented by Harry decades before. Few of his patients spoke about it afterward. Even those who didn't feel his clumsy intrusion into their minds felt the humiliation of being manacled. And a few of the women patients wondered if he'd been entirely ethical in his treatment of them. They felt strangely confused when they tried to think about what had occurred in that room.

But even when whispers spread, there was a constant demand for his services. He charged extremely high prices, only worked an easy three day week, but there was no-one else. When the ordinary healers failed, spell-bound people became desperate.

Meantime, Bellamy roamed all over Europe, vaguely heading south in the winters, and usually north again as summer approached. He was already fluent in all the major languages of Europe, now he began to understand a few of the more obscure ones as well. He'd get some casual work now and then, although to begin with, it had to be offered. Only after a workmate took him to a Labour Exchange, did he learn what he should do when he wanted work. He did better after that. His apparent innocence and helplessness roused a protective instinct in both men and women. His workmates generally looked after him, sometimes fairly carelessly, sometimes with a real concern. Now and then he'd be taken to a woman's bed, even given a home for months at a time.

But unless he was working, he'd become restless, and eventually wander off. He never fought, and never defended himself if attacked. He learned to keep away from policeman, as they always seemed to want to take him away somewhere. He became an expert at quietly fading into the shadows when he spotted a policeman. He never used magic, except that he shaved as he always had, just running his hands over his face so that the beard growth vanished. He routinely cleaned himself and his clothes with magic whenever washing facilities were not available, and so never quite looked a derelict. But these things were so habitual that he'd forgotten they were magic at all.

***chapter end***