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

Part 2/ Chapter 2

By the time Bellamy had been gone ten years, the auror department was having increasing difficulty keeping control of crime. 'Medj-baiting' was reaching astronomical proportions, and a certain beautiful and clever witch was becoming more and more influential, and more and more difficult to control. They increased their numbers dramatically, in response to demand. Alex had long retired, and Fred now hunted for Bellamy. He was given three helpers from the ranks of older ex-aurors, trying to find the great wizard. He was needed.

The culprit was unknown, but three of the aurors were found placidly sitting in Diagon Alley one morning, with pumpkins for heads. Clarence Holmes refused to consider trying to cure them, although he consented to see them, and at least say whether they were dead or alive. Beth was contacted, and agreed to the trip to do the cure, although she'd never attempted to cure a pumpkin-head. She was confident that she would do the cures without difficulty. Her natural telepathic ability was far greater than the relatively small talent of her father, even though her father had developed that talent to a considerable degree. Beth could know minds, easily and naturally, and had been able to do so from the time she was born, and probably before, but she didn't know pumpkin-heads, and had never learned to make the barrier that her father used to protect himself and his helpers.

The first two were all right, one being kept calm, and one being efficiently stunned as he attacked. The third - small, slight Quicksilver Ricky overcame the two aurors in attendance, although they were much larger than himself and armed besides, and then kicked Beth half to death before running frantically, knocking out two ambulance men as he went.

It took three weeks for him to became calm enough to find Graham, and ask whether the witch was all right, and what he should do.

Beth recovered her physical health, but she appeared to have lost the power of magic, as most witches and wizards did when they became very old, or were sick.

Bellamy's mind was opaque these days. He never felt the pain of his daughter, although he slept worse than usual that night, his distressed mutterings becoming louder and louder. The man in the bed beside him finally gave him a thump and told him to shut up. Bellamy quietly dressed, picked up his backpack, and walked off. The other man went back to sleep and snored heavily. But snores were normal, and no man rebuked him.

Bellamy walked. He still walked three weeks later, a lot more thin. It helped if some fast food vendor would call out to him suggesting that he buy. He felt as if there should be something he was doing.

In Amsterdam, he sat in the waiting room of a labour exchange. He was supposed to be waiting his turn to be interviewed, but he stared at nothing and had tears running down his cheeks. Three aurors were in grave trouble, and one had helped look after him in the last months that he'd worked at the spell-breaking. Bellamy didn't quite hear the cries for help, but he knew there was something. The three aurors were killed. Bellamy didn't know why he cried. The middle-aged woman who worked at the labour exchange stared uneasily at him, and then rang the police.

He was docile when they took him to the hospital. The sedative pills he was given were apparently obediently taken, but spat out as soon as there was an opportunity. He could have magically vanished them, but he wasn't supposed to work magic. They soon found that he was easily controlled with just a firm tone, so didn't use any restraints aside from supervision. For two days, he was kept at the hospital while decisions were made. But before he was committed, he slipped quietly out of the hospital in the night.

The following day, influence was brought to bear, and a photograph was displayed. Fred was a day late, but still hoped to find him. He couldn't be far away. This was the first trace they'd had of him since he left.

But Bellamy was on an ocean-going yacht, heading for Australia. He used the name of John Heinz. The owner and skipper of the small crew already regretted hiring the young man. He was a good enough worker, and surprisingly quick to learn, but his balance seemed very bad, which made him unsuitable for work on a yacht, and it had quickly become apparent that there was something wrong with him. Sometimes he trembled for no reason, and he seldom spoke. It turned out he couldn't read, either.

At the first port, he produced his passport when asked, but when it was checked and returned, the port official said, "Thank you, Mr. Bellamy."

The skipper checked his passport then, too, though he said nothing in front of the official. But later he asked, "What's your name?"

Bellamy said Joe Knight.

The skipper stared at him, and looked again at the passport. He asked again, "What's your name?"

Bellamy hesitated. The skipper looked like he'd given a wrong answer. He hazarded another guess, hesitantly - Michael O'Connor?

It was definitely the face of Bellamy that looked back at him from the page of the passport, though he was surprised to see that he was as old as thirty-two. Quietly, he asked, "Is your name Henry Bellamy?"

A frown of confusion crossed the face of Bellamy, and he hesitated before he said that he thought so. The poor skipper wondered what he should do, and decided to do nothing. The problem would be left in Australia, where Bellamy had said he wanted to go from the first.

Bellamy was happy to leave the yacht in Australia. He liked Australia. He wandered contentedly for a long time, mostly remembering to buy meals with money that he had quite efficiently exchanged at a bank. He was taken by surprise one day, though, when he tried to pay for a hamburger, and discovered his wallet was empty. He stared at the annoyed vendor disconsolately, before apologising and wandering off. The vendor was suddenly sorry for him, and called after him that he could have the hamburger. But the thin young man didn't appear to hear.

He was directed to the Australian equivalent of a Labour Exchange, but they didn't seem to cater for foreigners. They suggested he go to Sydney. There was always work in Sydney. Bellamy did as he was told. He went to Sydney, sometimes walking, sometimes he'd hitch a ride.

He forgot his intentions as he entered the big city. He even forgot that he hadn't eaten for days, just wandered. There was an atmosphere of excitement and aggression. There were a lot of fights going on. He observed, curiously. Young men, creating mayhem. Lots of young men. Some spoke, or mostly yelled, in accented English, others used Serbian or the closely related language, Croatian. He stood and watched as a group of youths cooperated to turn a car on its side, and frowned. They shouldn't do that. So far he'd been ignored, as he wandered vaguely in the midst of a street battle. A few police watched, oddly reluctant to intervene. Spotting them, he faded away from their sight, penetrating deeper into the heart of the big city. The scent of a restaurant called him, but he remembered he had no money, and wandered on, soon forgetting again that he was hungry.

Two Serbs had been cornered by several Croats, and were being badly beaten. Bellamy fussed around. "Fights should be fair!" he was muttering, "Fights should be fair!"

He circled, coming closer, and then retreating. Crazy men were not supposed to fight. But when boots started to be used on the now prone Serbs, he flew at those who kicked, fighting with a lightning speed and ferocity that soon frightened the Croats into retreating. The police found the isolated group of trouble-makers, that were not too dangerous to arrest, and Bellamy was rounded up with the others. He still wore his small backpack as he almost always did.

There was a queue for attention as they waited at the police station. "Sit there," Bellamy was told, and he sat there.

One by one, the lawless youths were processed. Relatives were contacted, and most taken home, after being charged with some fairly minor crimes. They didn't know what to do with Bellamy, who'd looked at them with an innocent gaze, and said his name was William Tomlinson, in spite of the passport that distinctly said his name was something quite different. He'd obviously been fighting though, and had no money to bail himself out, and no relatives to collect him. For the time being, they charged him with disorderly conduct, and put him in a cell with a drug dealer.

He looked around blankly, and then sat on the bed. He'd been arrested before, over similar incidents of fighting, and had never been detained more than a night. He was more frightened of hospitals than he was of a night in a gaol. It was late, and he curled up on his bed and went to sleep until the shouting from the next cell disturbed him. The Serbs were angrily demanding that a meal be brought to them. It was only their right, they said. "We have a right!" But the shouting was in Serb, and the policemen were not going to get the translator back at this time of night.

There was a pause, the two Serbs and the policemen staring at each other in angry frustration. Bellamy said, "They're saying you should give them a meal."

"A meal!" exclaimed one.

Bellamy nodded.

"It's two o'clock in the morning!" the policeman objected. Bellamy translated to the Serbs, and the pair started to yell again. After some negotiation, the prisoners agreed to pay for their pizza, and an order was sent off that included enough for the half dozen policemen as well. Even the drug dealer, in the cell with Bellamy, put in his money for a share.

Not long later, the Serbs were quiet, the drug dealer was quiet, and the policemen were quiet. Bellamy prowled the cell restlessly. No-one offered him any pizza. He didn't ask.

A check by a policeman a while later found him still restlessly prowling, and now it was noted that he trembled. The side of his face was very bruised, and the policeman wondered if he was ill, or maybe suffering from concussion. Two hours later, Bellamy paced the cell, slowly, tiredly, and still he trembled. It was decided now, the police doctor would be called in the morning to check him.

At dawn, he curled himself up on the floor, against the door of the cell, and slept.

Finally, there was a breakfast served. It was the first time Bellamy had eaten in several days. He sighed afterward, lay down, on his bed this time, and slept until they roused him, asking him to translate for the Serbs.

He obliged, fluent in Serb. They were at the reception desk, and it was relatives that were now trying to secure the release of the two young cousins who'd been fighting. He didn't appear to be paying much attention, and wandered over to the window. Mechanically, he translated the voices he heard, and when a loud voice speaking Chinese was raised, that was translated, too. The business with the Serbs was completed, and the policemen turned their attention to the young man who still stared out the window.

They took him to an interview room for this more serious talk. They started with that same question - What was his name.

Bellamy obliged, as usual, with the first name that came into his head. Kevin Greene. They asked again, and he stared at them baffled, realising that it must have been a wrong answer. And he was silent as he was quizzed about his background, his address, his occupation. But he started to tremble again, a trembling that went on and on, even after they stopped. They came to the charges, but had to remind him why he was there, as it seemed that he'd forgotten. But after some persistence, they got out of him the statement that fights should be fair. And people who were down, should not be kicked. By this stage, they'd almost decided to drop the charges.

The questioning took a different tack. "How many languages do you speak, Mr. Bellamy?"

He looked vague, and they had to be more specific. "Do you speak Chinese?"

"Yes."

"Do you speak French?"

"Yes."

"Do you speak German?"

"Yes."

They were beginning to think that he was agreeing to anything. They tried, "Do you speak Swahili?" And there was finally a variation, "Only a little."

One said, smiling, joking, "Do you want a job as an interpreter!"

Bellamy said, simply, "Yes." He needed a job. If he didn't have a job, he didn't have money to buy food.

The other was taken aback. Jobs were not handed out this way, whether or not he had a dozen languages. They had to explain to him that it was a joke, that he could not have a job just like that. Bellamy looked away, vaguely, and rose from his chair, vaguely, going to the door and trying it. He was ready to go now. But the door was locked, and one of the policemen said to him firmly that he should sit down, he was still under arrest. He sat, obediently, but started to shake again, and they returned him to his cell. The doctor would be there soon.

Coffee and morning tea for the officers on duty, having it at their desks, as was their custom. This time one of them noticed his eyes on the biscuits, and offered him some. For the first time, he smiled. A wide, tentative smile that betrayed his utter vulnerability, in spite of the bruising and the scar on his face that made him look somewhat of a tough.

The drug dealer was gone, and now the cells were empty aside from Bellamy. Again he was pacing. He wanted to go now. He didn't like being locked up.

Doctor Anya Swift arrived, a no-nonsense woman, who wore glasses, and looked to be in her thirties. Bellamy was taken to the interview room for the examination. One of the policemen, Barry Reagan, stayed. They thought the prisoner was safe enough, but you could never tell.

She checked for concussion first, and then he was ordered to strip, leaving on only his underpants. As usual, the moneybelt was totally ignored. But it was not his bruises that held the attention of both Anya and Reagan. It was the fact that he looked as if he was starving. "When did you eat last, Henry?" asked Anya.

Bellamy didn't answer. Henry? No-one called him Henry.

"Answer the question, Bellamy," ordered Reagan.

What question? And he rose and wandered over to the door again. It was still locked.

"When did you eat last, Bellamy?" asked Reagan.

"They gave me a biscuit," he said.

"Before that?"

Bellamy stared around, his gaze unfocused, "I don't know."

Anya went about her business of checking his bruises, listening to chest sounds, and then checking blood pressure. She noticed something, and glanced at Reagan. "Barry?"

Reagan was leaning against the wall, looking closely at the exposed body of Bellamy. There were several bruises, but there were scars as well, two on the back that he'd swear were from knives, another on his front, and there were the scars on his face, too. But now Anya extended his hand, and indicated an old white scar that encircled his wrist. For the first time, Bellamy showed resentment, pulling away his hand, looking again at the door.

"We'll give you lunch, soon, Bellamy," soothed Barry, and Bellamy looked up hopefully. Lunch was good. They checked his other wrist, and found the same sort of mark. It appeared that this odd stray might have had a chequered history.

They didn't let him go, just soothed him with more food whenever he started prowling. It worked nicely during the daylight hours, but he became worried when darkness began falling. Trembling again in his cell, and pacing more swiftly, every now and then trying the door as if it might miraculously be unlocked. He didn't appear at all dangerous, and they were only keeping him until they decided what to do about him.

At length, one of the night duty men tried something. He slid open the door of the cell, and invited Bellamy to join them for coffee. A guiding hand on his arm, and he was taken to the tea-room. His trembling ceased, and he smiled his thanks when the biscuit tin was offered. He was told to stay there, and help himself to more biscuits if he wanted. The two introduced themselves, Alec and Rob, and they asked him again what his name was. But he'd been reminded now, and he said, though rather uncertainly, "Bellamy?"

The tea room was warm, and he was left there. It was not as if any easy escape led off from the room. When Alec looked back in, an hour later, he was asleep on the floor.

There was more trouble that night, and more youths were brought in. The noise woke Bellamy, and he appeared from the tea-room, rubbing his eyes. Alec looked at him, "You don't know Arabic, by any chance." It appeared to their considerable pleasure that he did know Arabic. Again he translated, easily, almost automatically. He was convenient to have around.

He started trembling again when they suggested he return to the cell, even when they promised to leave the door open. So they took a blanket and pillow from the bed, and put him back in the tea-room. He was obviously confused, he was half starved, and he'd been useful to them. His status was already changing from prisoner to something more like a mascot.

The doctor, Anya, returned again the following day, bringing with her a set of scales, and it was confirmed that he was severely underweight. But he didn't appear a danger to either himself or others, and no beds were available in mental institutions. 'Community Care' was the buzzword of the day. Community Care never worked very well. The charges were dropped, but when they let him go, they suggested firmly that he leave his backpack, and he was to come back for lunch. There were only a few clothes and a towel in the backpack, and they wondered if he would return.

He did return, and was again provided with a meal. "Just like an animal," one of them said, derisively, "Returning to where it was fed."

That night, again, he slept in the tea-room. And again, he was needed when there was more trouble between the Serbian and Croatian communities.

Sydney was a sprawling city, that was suffering the problems caused by a non-discriminatory immigration programme. Australia accepted the troublemakers from scores of countries, though, oddly enough, it was often the second generation that got themselves into trouble in their new country. There was no requirement that prospective immigrants have a knowledge of English, and a competent interpreter was a valuable commodity. The station had a list of interpreters for various languages, but Bellamy could handle nearly every language needed. Unfortunately, he couldn't read.

Word spread, and he became accustomed to being taken by police car, to different stations, at all times of the day or night, in order to translate for people of many different nationalities. He spoke a lot more as an interpreter than he ever did on his own behalf. He didn't know every language. He failed with Turkish, and he had no Japanese at all. "Why don't you know Japanese?" he was asked, half-joking.

His answer was perfectly serious. "I don't like Japan. I only went there once."

For ten days, he slept every night wrapped in a blanket, in the station tea-room, ignoring the voices around him. He was most needed at night, and he came to know the half dozen officers on night duty more quickly than those on day duty. He seldom gave them their names, no matter how often they reminded him. And for some reason, he invariably called Alec, 'Pete.' Another he called 'Manfred,' and viewed with distrust. 'Manfred' had difficulty getting his cooperation, as he'd just stare at the man and forget what he was supposed to be doing.

The officer in charge finally put his foot down. Having a homeless man sleeping in the tea-room was not professional. Anya checked him again, finding an improvement in weight, and on being told that he was to be put out, yielded to temptation, and took him home herself, rather as if he was a stray dog. The red tape was efficiently cut by a senior officer, on the representations of several of his men, and he was to be paid a retainer, as a police interpreter, with a fee for every job done. They even arranged that he be paid in cash, as he didn't seem to have a bank account, and they doubted his ability to organise one. They suspected he might just starve again if he had no money.

In the next weeks, Bellamy learned to carry a beeper, and appear for translating duties whenever needed. He began to find his way around, and Anya started to take pleasure in having him in her home. She'd taken him home out of pity. He obviously needed to be looked after. But when the bruises faded, and he became less skinny, there came a temptation. She had to make the invitation, but she was well rewarded with a surprisingly skilful lover. He was still a mystery. She knew he was not feeble-minded, but he spoke little. When he went out, he'd mostly take his backpack, leaving behind him little trace that he'd ever been there. She asked him why, once, and he said that sometimes he got lost. Anya fully expected to find that, one day, he'd be gone.

Anya, with her sister and brother-in-law, took him to the beach one Sunday. He sat on the sand beside them, lifting the sand in his fingers, and letting it drift through his fingers. He looked around, at the sparkling sea, and the sunny day, and smiled. His smiles were so rare that they were looked for, and Anya felt herself well rewarded. It was not a hot day, in spite of the sun. Few were at the beach, and fewer swimming. But Bellamy rose, and asked if he was allowed to go swimming. On being given consent, his clothes were quite quickly cast aside, including a moneybelt that no-one took any notice of, and, unselfconscious, he walked straight into the water, wearing underpants. Anya was not the only one who looked at his body with appreciation.

The narrow-shouldered brother-in-law was frankly envious. His wife leaned toward him, and murmured, "You've got a much better brain, though," and Ernie felt a bit better.

Ten minutes later, they were on their feet, watching anxiously as Bellamy continued to swim straight out to sea. He was almost out of sight when he turned and swam parallel to the beach, before returning. He came back to them after, looking frankly happy. He even made an unsolicited comment, "The water's great!"

There were other treats organised for him in the next weeks, by Anya, and by a couple of the policemen, too. Investigations had been made, seeking information on his history, but nothing had come to light. He was a mystery, but he seemed perfectly happy now, only showing agitation if he was questioned about his past. With the regular meals and the comfort offered by a shared bed, he began to improve. He was less confused, more alert, and was less apt to wander off in the wrong direction if he wasn't watched. His wallet had a reasonable amount of money in it again.

Eleven weeks after his arrest, Alec and Rob, on their day off, took him to a place where they could hire jetboats. The three of them played together that day, and watched their charge laugh with joy as he raced across the water. He was a bit dangerous. It seemed as if he couldn't keep a straight line, and continually veered to the left. Anya watched with a slight frown. That night she quizzed him about past injuries to his head. But he couldn't answer, and only started to tremble when she persisted. She soothed him with some love-making, but was very thoughtful. By the time she slept, she'd decided that Bellamy was to have some thorough medical investigations. Maybe there was a physical cause for his confusion.

A couple of days later, Henry Bellamy, aged one hundred and thirty-eight, was walking. He liked to walk, and he wouldn't get lost, because Anya had given him a card with their address on it. If he became lost, he had to find a taxi and show the driver the card. But he hardly ever got lost any more.

Inside the police station, Patrick, Fred, and Gareth waited for Bellamy. Their investigations, and the watch that had been kept, had finally paid off. But it had taken months for the information to filter through, that a Henry Bellamy had been arrested in Sydney, Australia. Further enquiries were made, and it became certain that it was their Bellamy. The Ministry had requested cooperation, and the Police Commissioner himself had been in touch with the officer in charge at the station. They knew that these were very important men who waited. Even if those external representations had not been made, the powerful wizards carried with them an air of authority and power that impressed.

Yet they would say little about why they wanted the mystery man, and some of the policemen there were concerned for the stray they'd adopted. He was to be taken away, it appeared, and Barry remembered those old scars on his wrists. Did these rather frightening men have anything to do with that? He was somewhat reassured when it was mentioned that Bellamy now lived with Anya, and Patrick laughed, saying to the others that they should have known, "Trust Bellamy!" That laugh sounded fond.

Fred glanced at the policeman, and said reassuringly that he shouldn't worry, that they would look after Bellamy. And Gareth added, "We won't force him to come with us, you know. If he doesn't want to come, we'll just leave him be."

But the one Bellamy called Manfred replied in rather an acerbic tone, that Bellamy didn't need to be forced, as he just did whatever he was told!

"Except when you tell him, Manfred," said another.

"He calls you Manfred?" Patrick asked Robert.

On being given an assent, Patrick mentioned, "He knew someone called Manfred once."

Barry asked, "Did he like him?"

Patrick grinned, "Not much!"

Bellamy's beeper sounded. That meant he was wanted for a job. He wasn't far away, and turned his steps toward the police station. Fifty feet away, he froze, and when he came closer, he was out of sight behind cover. Barry watched for him from the window, but didn't see him. The aurors kept out of sight. They wanted Bellamy inside where they could surround him. They were confident that then Bellamy would go with them, although, of course, he would not be forced. No-one could force a wizard of such power to do what he really didn't want to do.

Bellamy could feel them there. Fred, Patrick, Gareth. He was torn. They were from a world he had fled and had not thought about for many years. But it was a world he cared about. He stood, watching the door from his position behind a tree.

After twenty minutes, his beeper sounded again. He switched it off.

After another twenty minutes, the wizards came out the door, looking for him, wondering if he was there. From behind his cover, Bellamy lifted a hand, making an odd, yearning sound, scarcely audible. He'd known Patrick and Fred since they were twenty, and rather shy of him. They'd been freshly qualified then, and he'd known them ever since. Now they were seventy. Patrick had white hair. Fred was half bald. Even Gareth was middle-aged. The aurors looked carefully around, wondering if he watched. Bellamy put his beeper on the ground, and backed quietly away. They very quickly found the beeper, but in spite of all the cooperation given by the Australian police, it was two years before they found him again.

***chapter end***