Harry Potter and the Knife of Klingsor, Part 12

When Draco Malfoy finally woke up, he didn’t feel good at all. He rubbed his eyes, looked around, and found that the car had stopped. His stomach gave a pitch and roll, and he bolted for the door. He jumped out of the large, black Rolls and landed in a clump of soft green grass, fighting to keep his breakfast down. His head ached as well, and when he got up on his knees to look around, a wave of dizziness took him right back onto the grass.

“Ughhh,” he moaned in misery, feeling as if he’d just been beaten. His entire body ached, but his head hurt the worst. He figured that he’d probably felt worse when he’d been almost tortured to death in his room the previous week, but the way that he was currently feeling was undeniably a close second. He closed his eyes and held onto the grass, hoping that the ground would stop spinning. “Now where have they gone to?” He mumbled, noticing that no one was around when he grew brave enough to open one eye.

He had no idea as to how long he’d lain there when he heard Mr. Riddle’s voice. He seemed to be talking with his father, Lucius Malfoy, about something that they were going to have a rough time finding. Draco couldn’t make out the details, however, because his head ached too badly and his sinuses were beginning to close up. He did catch a few bits of it, however.

“I would think that it’s at Hogwart’s,” Riddle was saying.

“If it is, then that’s a very perplexing problem,” Lucius answered.

“One that we will solve together, I’m sure,” Riddle replied ominously, “Or perhaps young Draco can solve for us! Gods, Lucius, I’ve not felt this good in a long time! That’s some boy you have there!”

The rest of the conversation came in clouded bits and snatches as the feeling of total euphoria swept over Draco again. He didn’t hear kind words that often, and the tone of Riddle’s voice in praising him, calling him ‘some boy there,’ was almost enough to drive away the aches and pains and nausea. Then he heard his father’s voice, very close to him. He was so taken with the feeling, however, that he didn’t instinctually flinch.

“Uh, son,” Lucius Malfoy asked him curiously, sounding nearly amused, “WHY are you lying about in the grass and not in the car?”

“Sick,” Draco moaned weakly, holding his stomach.

“Oh my, motion sickness,” he heard Riddle comment, “We’ll have to do something about that, Lucius. Can’t have the boy pulling up ill on us NOW can we?”

“We’ll never make it to Ireland at this rate,” Malfoy commented, “Not if we have to make that other stop. Do you suppose it’s the dislocation, those tiny Disapparations of the car making him ill?”

“Well,” Riddle mused, keeping back just out of Draco’s sight, “He is awfully young to be Apparating, whether with us in the car or not. It IS an old trick, though. Perhaps we should just head off to find … the ITEM …,” he dodged, “After all, we’ve a few weeks until the full moon, and the timing has to be perfect. Besides, I could use a book or two from the library’s Restricted Section for reference. The Spell HAS to be perfect, and I’m a bit rusty. I’m sure that going there in the guise of making a donation would get you and the boy in without question?”

“THAT is a good idea,” Malfoy mused, “I could send Professor Snape word ahead, to vouch for us and see if he’d like to make a few changes for this year’s Quidditch team. I think the purchase of a few new Broomsticks just might turn the trick, not to mention how bad it would make Harry Potter and the Gryffindor team look!”

Riddle nodded, drawing in a deep breath and scooping the limp boy up in his arms. Draco felt as if they were gliding over to the car, and he sighed in contentment as Riddle’s touch drove the aches and pains from his body. They settled back into the luxurious seat of the Rolls, and Mr. Malfoy fired up the engine.

“I don’t know how you can be so tired, Draco,” Riddle told him, sighing as the boy snuggled in next to him, “You’ve slept for the whole ride here to the Channel, all day long! But why don’t you just go back to sleep, then? You’ll feel better when we’re done. I know that some children don’t take to long car rides very well.”

“Alright,” Draco agreed sleepily, closing his eyes again as Lord Voldemort took another deep inhalation of his Powers.

“We have time, Lucius,” he suggested, “Why don’t we find an inn for the night and head to Hogwart’s in the morning when the boy’s feeling better? We’ll be idling about in Ireland for weeks if we go straight there. I never much card for Ireland.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Malfoy agreed, as the black Rolls made its way back to the highway, came up to speed, and vanished into the night.

A few hours later, the Rolls appeared out of thin air in a parallel parking place right outside an inn called “The Wandering Wizard”. The inn, to the Muggle eye, looked like nothing more than a black door, painted shut, between two other doors in the middle of brick wall in some small town in east-central England. It looked a great deal like the door to “The Leaky Cauldron”, the bar that housed one of the several hidden entrances to Diagon Alley.

The diversion had not taken them all that long, but the Power cost to Lucius Malfoy had been enormous. He was looking drawn and haggard as he opened the back door of the Rolls. “I’m going to have to call a bellboy,” he advised Voldemort, who nodded and seemed to vanish into a puff of black smoke.

Malfoy staggered to the door and tapped it with his Wand. It opened into a huge foyer with brass chandeliers lighting the room with the fires of thousands of candles. It was warm and inviting, and smelled of freshly cut flowers. Malfoy wrinkled his nose and rang the bell at the front desk.

“Welcome to The Wandering Wizard!” A rather short and fat man in a Wizard’s robe and cockeyed hat announced as he popped out of a door behind the counter. His skin was the medium brown color of someone who’d been out in the sun on regular basis, however, and his black hair was tightly curled and short.

First Mudblood Wizards and now biracial ones, Malfoy groaned inwardly. Where does it end?

“A room for the night sir?” He asked jovially.

Malfoy sneered, slamming a handful of gold Galleons down on the counter. “Room for two, one adult, one child. I’m very tired from a long and arduous journey, my good man. Be quick about it. I’ll be needing a bellboy to carry my son up. He’s ill.”

“Of course, sir, if there’s anything we can get you,” the fat man wheedled, taking the gold with wide eyes, “Just call down or send the room rat. They’re very well trained, faster than owls in town, even. BOY!” He shouted, and a rather scrawny and tall teenaged boy appeared, rubbing his puffy eyes, from the same door. His face was a bit rough, he needed a shave, and his muddy-blonde hair hung down to his eyes.

“See our guests’ things up to room 36. There’s a sick little boy in the car who’ll need carried up, and be careful about it!”

“Yes, sir,” the bellboy replied dully. “Which car, sir?”

“You can’t miss it,” Malfoy glared, taking the keys and heading up the long marble staircase. “And don’t try anything, boy, the car and its contents are heavily Cursed!”

The bellboy swallowed hard and nodded, slamming the door behind him. Malfoy had just made his way up to Room 36 and opened the door when their luggage popped into existence on the floor at the foot of the two king-sized four-poster beds.

“If he Apparates Draco up here, I’ll kill him,” Malfoy snarled, glancing about and pulling his Wand. “Revallo!” He said coldly, waving it about the room, but nothing happened. “Good,” he sighed, “My Lord?”

A wisp of black smoke seeped out from under the bathroom door. “One moment,” a low and dry voice hissed.

“Don’t bother, my Lord. We all need the rest. Especially Draco.”

“Agreed,” Voldemort hissed. “I shall return in the morning to resume our journey, as I have other things to look into. Being disembodied DOES have some advantages.”

“Very well,” Malfoy agreed, falling back onto the bed just as the door opened.

“Sir,” the bellboy asked in a shaky voice, “Your son doesn’t look well at all. Shall I send for a doctor?” He came in, carefully laid Draco on the vacant bed, and stepped back. He was shivering, despite the warm summer night.

“Thank you, no, but do send up a Potion of Pepperup Juice and some chamomile tea, strong, that is.”

“Very good, sir,” the bellboy agreed, “If you need anything else, send the rat down.” He almost ran to the door and Malfoy laughed.

“Can’t get good summer help these days,” he grumbled, trying hard to stay awake.

At the desk below, Frank the bellboy was complaining to his boss, “I don’t like the looks of that one, I tell ya, the ones in 36, sir.”

The fat man snorted. “He had gold, though,” he replied, “And it’s our job to comfort our guests, no matter who they are. You don’t know who that is, do you?”

Frank shook his head.

“That’s Lucius Malfoy, signed in as Thomas Riddle, though. I don’t know what’s going on, but I’d recognize him or Draco Malfoy anywhere. My nephew, Dean Thomas, is in Gryffindor House, Second Year, at Hogwart’s School and he’s written about what a snob that Draco is. Doesn’t like Dean at al because he’s Muggle-born. Be very careful, Frank. I don’t like the looks of it either, but I’m not saying a word.”

Frank nodded, lowering his voice and looking about, the silver tray in his hands with Malfoy’s order rattling as he trembled. “Something dark and sinister about him, I’ll say,” he said, “I don’t like it at all. And the boy! He felt so light, like he didn’t have much substance to him. Did you see how drawn and pale he was? I could feel his ribs when I carried him up!”

“Be quick about it,” the fat man replied, scribbling a note and tying it to the leg of an awaiting owl. The owl took off carrying his note that read not to send Dean for his usual summer visit until he wrote back. Once the owl was clear, the fat man scribbled out another note and sent it out via rat down the street to a friend who forwarded it via owl to someone else. “I certainly don’t want Dean showing up here while they’re here.”

Frank made his nervous way back to Room 36 and knocked softly. He gasped as Draco opened the door, standing there in his briefs and rubbing his eyes. Lucius Malfoy was already asleep on the bed.

“F-father said t-to (yawn) let y-y-you in,” the boy greeted him, so tired and feeling so bad that he forgot to be snotty or rude. “Where are w-we?”

“You are guests of the fine inn, The Wandering Wizard, young Master Riddle,” Frank replied nervously, remembering the name on the book. “I have some Potion for you that your father ordered, and some tea. Would you like anything else, a bit to eat perhaps?”

Draco’s tummy rumbled, his motion sickness obviously gone.

“I’d take that as a ‘yes’,” Frank said, and Draco grinned. It sent a chill through Frank, and he nearly dropped the tray.

“I suppose the Potion’s all for me?” Draco asked nasally, knowing that it was going to warm him up, clear his head, and send smoke rolling out of his ears for hours.

“Yes, it is,” his father muttered, “Drink it and be quiet.” He then seemed to fall back asleep.

Draco did just that, taking the tray from Frank and whispering, “I know it’s late, but I’ve been out cold all day. Do you really have anything to eat at this hour?” Steam was rolling out of his ears and his face was flushing. He instantly looked better as the Pepperup Potion did its job on him.

If Harry, Ron and Hermione could have seen the bane of their existence being so polite to someone, they’d have run to Madame Pomfrey in a heartbeat to have Malfoy’s head examined. They’d all heard his feelings about ‘servants’ numerous times. The fact was that the usually snobbish boy was simply too exhausted and hungry to even think about his superior Pureblood attitude.

“Are you quite alright to eat?” Frank asked him suddenly, remembering that his father had said that he was ill and remembering how light the boy had been when he’d carried him up to the room.

So light, but so soft, he thought, wondering why he was thinking that and staring at him. He could be a beautiful boy if he weren’t so ill.

“Yes, please,” Draco replied, in a soft and high voice of a boy not yet in the torments of puberty.

Frank gazed at him again for a moment, taking in the disheveled white, short hair and the sunken cheeks. The boy’s face was very pale despite the Pepperup Potion, as if he’d never seen sunlight. His eyes were dull and colorless, and his lips were a strange shade of pinkish-gray. Standing there in only his undershorts, Frank could count every one of Draco’s ribs and see his hipbones clearly above the elastic waistband. His legs were thin as well, and trembling as he stood there. Then, as if instinctively – for Frank liked girls, he was sure – his eyes moved back to the snug and tight front of the boy’s shorts. There wasn’t even the usual small protrusion of a prepubescent boy’s package – not even a tiny bump in the fabric - and Frank had a momentary vision of Draco Malfoy, naked and asexual.

He suddenly wanted to scream and run away. His cock had hardened in his pants, and he turned to hide it, hoping that the boy hadn’t noticed. He very much wanted to simply disappear, to be as far away from this strangely attractive - yet repulsive - boy as he could get.

But he didn’t.

Instead, Frank fetched him a plate of cold meat and cheese with rye bread and left Room 36 as quickly as possible, reminding the boy to drink the strong tea as his father had ordered. He added the room service to “Mr. Riddle’s” tab and then headed back to his own room where he Charmed his door with every Locking Spell that he could think of.

He didn’t get back to sleep for a long while, and when he did, he had nightmares of strange bejeweled Knives and young boys screaming in agony in the Hospital Wing of Hogwart’s. He’d gone there himself, having been in Hufflepuff house, and the nightmarish visions of Madam Pomfrey with her red bag and white hose, along with strangers he did not know wielding the odd Knife made for quite a rough night.

He kept waking up over and over again, his cock always erect and twitching. He was at Hogwart’s, wandering the corridors and looking in cabinets and cupboards and everywhere for something that he just HAD to find. He had to find it, and deliver it to Room 36. Mr. Riddle wanted it, he knew, but he couldn’t find it anywhere. He kept meeting boys on the staircases as they shifted here and there, delaying his search. All of them were very handsome, snappily dressed in formal Robes, and they all seemed very friendly.

Admit it, they’d all said, smiling at him.

Admit what? Frank always asked.

That you like boys, you like THAT boy! They all accused him, pointing their fingers at someone.

And there he was. At the top of the stairs was the Riddle boy, or Malfoy, as his boss had said. Draco Malfoy, Pureblood student of Slytherin House. His white hair was neat and shiny, and his eyes glowed with a light red cast. His face was flushed and he was sweating, trembling, as he stood at the top of the staircase.

He was also naked.

Only Frank seemed to notice this, however. Everyone else just passed by the naked boy and said hello or nodded as if nothing were amiss. He stared at the oddly beautiful boy, so young and healthy and full of life. He shook his head as his erection ached painfully. He looked back at the boy, unable to resist.

But it wasn’t a boy that he saw. It was a eunuch; an asexual creature that only looked like a boy.

He was pale and thin, and his hair looked gray and dry. His cheeks were sunken, and his dull eyes were wandering as if seeing nothing. He was coughing. Still, he wore only an odd smile.

You like me, don’t you, Frank? he asked, touching his barren crotch and shivering as if in ecstasy.

No, no! I like girls, I don’t think little boys are … I mean ... eunuchs … but I never … I wouldn’t! Frank had replied, but they’d all just shaken their heads and smiled back at him in disbelief.

Liar! You like little boys, don’t you, Frank? he accused him again.

NO!

Frank awoke with a start. Confused and frightened, but so tired as well, he always fell back to sleep. Again and again, the Malfoy/Riddle boy asked him if he liked him. Always, Frank said no, that he didn’t like little boys. The cycle repeated itself until Frank finally blew his seed into his bedclothes at the crack of dawn in the most violent orgasmic wet dream he’d ever had.

The next morning, his employer found him too ill to work. Later that afternoon, when the mysterious guests in Room 36 were leaving, he could not rouse him. Coming back to the front desk to check out the Riddle party of two, he reported this to Mr. Malfoy/Riddle, discounting his bill since Lucius had had to Translocate his own luggage back to the car.

“Cahn’t get good help these days, summer help, repeating his Sixth Year, ya know. Kinda dense, Frank is,” the fat man told them.

“Do tell him thank you for the late meal and goodbye for me,” the sickly looking boy had said, and then they’d gone.

Only moments later, after the proprietor of The Wandering Wizard had opened the windows to let a strange dark smoke blow out of the foyer, Frank awoke screaming about Dark Wizards and castrated boys and a bewitched Knife full of Dark Magic. He knocked his eimployer over, running naked about the lobby and screaming. Then he ran out the back door and off down the street, ranting about emasculated students and Dark Wizards and full moons.

Members of the staff of St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries came to take him away shortly thereafter, finding him atop the roof of the local confections shop flapping his arms and hooting like an owl.

The owls and rats all began arriving the next morning. They all carried with them complaints from the parents of little boys who’d stayed at the inn in the recent past, all of them having reported Frank to the Ministry of Magic for ‘lewd, indecent, and even unmentionable’ Dark Magical and sexual acts with minors. Dean Thomas’ fat uncle soon found himself caught in a veritable rainstorm of angry letters, among them several red Howler envelopes that burst into flame and shouted their messages at him before he could open them all.

A month later, after screaming himself voiceless in a padded cell at Mungo’s in the high security wing, Frank was dead. They found him just as the first full moon past the Summer Solstice was rising in the East, with a look of utter surprise on his pale face; his hands were clasped firmly over bloody crotch.

He’d torn his genitals off with his bare hands.

“Where are we off to now, father?” Draco asked, having been put in the front seat of the Rolls this time.

Lucius Malfoy sighed. “I think we’ll take the scenic drive up to Hogwart’s, son. There’s a book in the library I need to have a look at. It won’t take long, and then we’ll rejoin Mr. Riddle when we leave there.”

Draco shook his head and sighed. “I cahn’t believe I’m visiting the School on holiday,” he commented. “Maybe Professor Snape will be there? Oh, and are we still going to Ireland?”

Malfoy smiled at his son, relieved that the boy was looking somewhat better. Voldemort had agreed to lay low in the Forbidden Forest for a bit, giving the exhausted boy time to recover. Without his Wand and in his emasculated state, the Dark Lord had been feeding greedily off of his unused Wizarding Powers. The result had been that in two days’ time, Draco had almost looked like the walking dead.

“Pace yourself, My Lord,” Malfoy had told him, “Until we can at least find Finnegan and set the plan in motion.”

Surprisingly, Voldemort had seen the reasoning in this request and had agreed to meet them somewhere in the village below the Castle that was Hogwart’s School when Malfoy had gotten his hands on the book.

“Just don’t forget to find the Knife,” he’d mentioned in that dead and dry voice, ghosting away into the darkness with a slight whistle. “I will find the car when you leave.”

“Yes, son, we’ll be off for Ireland so you can visit your little friend as soon as father’s done at the School,” Lucius Malfoy told him, wondering where in the village he was going to park the huge car.

Draco snorted, sipping a foul tasting Potion that was making his ears steam and his nose burn. “Friend? He’s not MY friend. And what’s IN this?” He asked, staring at it with a raised eyebrow.

“Pepperup, Mandrake and some other things, son. Drink it, you look awful.”

The boy did that, making faces as the car rolled on. It didn’t take him long to get bored, or Lucius long to get tired of the boy playing with the radio. When he finally landed on a hard rock station, Muggle music, Malfoy had sneered. “Must we?” He asked in a dangerous tone.

“But father, it’s Alice Cooper!” Draco said excitedly, “Listen!”

I wanna kiss ya but your lips are venomous poison! One look could kill, my pain, your thrill ….. I wanna love ya but I better not touch! I wanna hold ya but my senses tell me to stop!

Malfoy raised an eyebrow, his head being assaulted by what sounded like cats being skinned alive onstage and trampled on. “Miss Alice sounds like a man to me,” he commented, nevertheless taking in the lyrics and grinning. He wondered if Voldemort had heard this song.

“I have to pee,” Draco mentioned as they rolled through a fair-sized village, following the course of the tracks that the Hogwart’s Express took every year.

Malfoy stopped the Rolls in front of a small general store and got out, helping Draco to his feet. He swayed a bit, and his father slipped an arm under his to hold him up. “I’m sorry,” he boy said quickly, his legs trembling.

His father didn’t seem to mind, however, which surprised him. “Quaint,” he mumbled, looking about the village and guiding the boy towards the storefront. He waited out outside the bathroom door while Draco attended to his business, thinking about the fact that he’d have to sit to do it and hoping that the place was clean. On the way out, the boy stopped at the front counter, eyeing a shelf of candy. Malfoy almost smiled, but the boy didn’t ask. He sighed instead and jingled the small change in his pocket. He then tapped the counter with his Wand, and whole row of Wizard candy magically appeared over the more common gum, mints, and chocolate bars that Muggles were used to seeing.

The clerk, a young Witch obviously on summer holiday and working a part time job, grinned at him. Malfoy leered back at her, and Draco raised an eyebrow.

“I haven’t had one of these in ages,” Mr. Malfoy commented, picking up a box of chocolate frogs and paying for them as Draco stared at him in disbelief. “It’s the cards you want, you know,” he told the stunned boy, who suddenly smiled at him.

“My little brother’s got about a million of them,” the cute girl told him, blushing as she handed Mr. Malfoy his change. She winked at Draco, who grinned back.

They got back in the car. “Wasn’t she just the pretty one?” Malfoy asked of his son. Draco, however, was more interested in the candy, as he’d not discovered girls before his alteration.

“She’s too young for you, father, and you’re MARRIED!”

Lucius Malfoy laughed. “I can STILL look,” he replied, shaking his head and starting the motor up. “Friendlier sort than your mother, though.”

Draco didn’t reply, fearing that he’d inadvertently cross a line.

A few more days and it won’t matter if his teeth rot out, Lucius Malfoy admitted to himself, passing him the bag of candy.

Draco merrily unwrapped the chocolate frogs as they drove on, and Malfoy only Apparated the car a few times. It would be nightfall before they reached the School if he didn’t do it, and the boy seemed to be getting used to it. He was just handing his father a frog, which jumped onto the dashboard with a loud CROAK! when he held up the trading card.

“Father, who’s Alessandro Grimaldi?” he asked, staring at the trading card’s feature Wizard.

“He runs a music shop in Diagon Alley,” Lucius Malfoy answered, and Draco handed him the card. The picture was of a very old and odd-looking Wizard with no beard and long, curly gray hair. His brown eyes were sad looking, and he was somewhat plump. “Didn’t know he was famous though,” he commented, handing the card back to the boy without reading it. The landscape blurred as Malfoy translocated the Rolls again and Draco groaned, holding his stomach. He fell asleep shortly afterwards, his fingers and mouth stained with melted chocolate.

They arrived a few hours later, parking the Rolls near the train station and booking a carriage up to the School.

“I’m going to the library, son,” Malfoy told him, shaking him awake. “I don’t think anyone will care if you just wander about. You could use some fresh air and sunshine, I daresay, just stay OUT of trouble!”

Draco nodded and decided to go and have a look at the Quidditch field. He desperately wanted to play on the Slytherin House team, but he was too small. The fact that Potter played Seeker for Gryffindor ate at him, and he was in a foul mood by the time he arrived at the neatly mowed open-air stadium. He was also exhausted, and collapsed into a seat just below the announcer’s booth. He pulled his jacket off and loosened his blood red tie. Youngest Seeker in a century, he thought darkly, And where’d HE get the money for that new Nimbus 2000 anyway? I bet someone bought it for him, cheating it is!

He sat for a while, moodily staring at the trees in the distance behind the field.

“I wonder where Mr. Riddle is?” He wondered half aloud, and a gruff voice from behind him almost made him jump out of his skin.

“Yer a bit early fer the first game,” it said, and Draco turned around quickly.

“Eww, it’s YOU,” Rubeus Hagrid growled at him. “Whatcha doin’ here in the mid’l’o summer, Malfoy? Cursin’ the field er somethin’?”

Draco sneered at him. He didn’t like Hagrid at all, mainly because the huge man had bonded with Harry Potter and Harry had spurned his own offers of friendship when they’d started school. The fact that HARRY POTTER, the celebrity, would rather hang out with Mudbloods, Weasleys and questionable characters just rankled at him. Besides, Hagrid had been expelled in his Third Year, and the boy regarded him as nothing more than hired help. He might have thought differently of him, as small boys are apt to be fascinated with odd characters, if not for Potter and Weasley. He was about to say something nasty back to Hagrid when he yawned. He leaned his pale head back, simply too tired to care all of a sudden.

“Leave me alone,” he grumbled, wishing that Mr. Riddle would hurry up and rejoin them. He liked Mr. Riddle, and Mr. Riddle liked him and made him so good. He very suddenly wanted to be held, comforted, and his chest ached in longing. He hadn’t been paid much attention until Mr. Riddle came along, and he missed him already. He coughed, and realized that he didn’t feel GOOD at all. That and Hagrid smelled like a smokehouse.

The huge man grunted at him. “What ARE yeh doin’ here, anyways? It’s a holiday!” He repeated.

“Father had to use the Library, if you MUST know,” Draco wheezed, coughing harshly.

Hagrid took a closer look at him. Draco’s white hair was dry and brittle looking, cut shorter than he’d ever seen it. His eyes were colorless and bloodshot, dull, and his cheeks were sunken. His thin lips were dull and almost gray, and his very slightly pointed nose was getting stuffy again. He reminded Hagrid of a dying weasel he’d found in the chicken coop once.

Despite the fact the he DIDN’T like Draco at all, holding him personally responsible for the loss of Norbert, his baby dragon, Hagrid bent closer to him. “Boy, yeh look like hell!” The huge man told him.

“Oh, thanks!” Draco snapped. “You look dashing, yourself!”

“YOU need to see a doctor,” Hagrid told him, “C’mon!”

Draco flinched. “You touch me and my father will have your shaggy head on a silver platter!” He threatened him, but then he began to cough again. His thin little body shook as the cough racked him, and he wheezed when it was done.

Hagrid sighed. “Headless Hunt er not, I’ll not be lettin’ a sick boy, any boy, jus’ sit here in the state yer in! Lucius Malfoy can have me head on a platter, if’n ‘e wants. I’ll just take it up with ol’ Nick in Gryffindor House.”

Draco knew that Hagrid was referring to Nearly Headless Nick, the ghost of Gryffindor House who’d been repeatedly denied membership to the Headless Hunt. He sighed and realized that he couldn’t stand up. His whole body ached again, and he moaned in resignation.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered between clenched teeth. “Can you please, Hagrid? I don’t think I can stand. I’ve been sick.”

“I kin tell.”
Hagrid scooped the slight boy up in his great arms, strangely repulsed by the cold feel of the skin on his bare legs and arms. He thought of when he’d been carrying Harry back up to the Castle right before the holidays had begun. Harry weighed a ton compared to Draco, and Hagrid didn’t’ have as hard of a time fighting back his odd feelings of holding a boy close to him as he carried Draco Malfoy. He simply wanted to put him down and be rid of him. Harry, on the other hand, well – Harry had been substantial and soft and warm. Malfoy was light and rough and cold. There was no delight in touching him all as Hagrid felt at his cool forehead. He thought of Harry’s scar, and he shivered a bit.

Harry’s much more loveable. Wonder what ‘e’s doin’ fer summer? He mused, Prob’ly o’er ter Ron’s place by now, havin’ a good time.

Unbeknownst to Hagrid as he entered the Castle with Draco in his arms, Harry was having the best summer ever at Ron’s, in fact, de-Gnoming the garden with the Weasley Clan.

“Hagrid!” A loud voice boomed down the hallway as he made for the Hospital Wing. Hagrid turned to see Albus Dumbledore racing down the hallway, and smiled. The old Wizard’s cap was on crooked, he was wearing sunglasses, and his nose was coated in white cream. He was wearing a swimsuit that resembled a large pair of boxer shorts, printed in the same stars/moons design as his formal robes. His Wand was wedged behind his ear, like a secretary’s pencil, and he was dripping water and sand all over the floor. He looked very disturbed, indeed, sloshing the large drink in his left hand all about as he ran.

“Professor Dumbledore, sir,” Hagrid mentioned, “Hurry back from vacation did we?” Hagrid laughed.

“I was in the Azores at the Wizards’ Retreat when I got an owl…” he started, but snapped his mouth shut when he saw the boy in Hagrid’s arms. “Oh, my!” He breathed, staring had Draco, who seemed to have fallen asleep. “What’s HE doing here? He’s supposed to be in an inn near…”

“Sed ‘is dad had ter use the Library,” Hagrid replied, “He’s sicker’n a dog, too.”

Just then, Minerva McGonagall came dashing around a corner. She was wearing a hot green two-piece bikini and large straw hat. She had the same cream on her nose, and her sunglasses were down at the tip of it. She turned about eighteen shades of red when she saw Hagrid, and gasped as well when she saw Draco.

“Oh, my,” she mumbled, pulling her Wand out of her tight bun of hair where it stuck out like an oriental hairpiece ornament. She spun a robe out of thin air with it and put it on, her face flaming. “Albus, really,” she commented, “Do have some dignity!”

“I’m on holiday!” Dumbledore protested, pulling up his shorts and waving a rather sunburnt and skinny leg at her.

“Hagrid, take the boy up to the Infirmary. He looks like hell. I’ll call Poppy at once,” McGonagall said. “Albus, do you think it’s true?”

As Hagrid ran off with the ailing boy in his arms, the two Professors headed to the main office. “The owl was looking a bit rough,” Dumbledore was saying to her as they went up the spiral staircase. “I have no reason to believe that it’s not true. If what Thomas wrote me is correct, then that black smoke billowing around The Wandering Wizard Inn was no cooking fire! I knew Frank when he was here. Flunked his Sixth Years, Minerva, and if Malfoy’s traveling under the name ‘Riddle,’ he’s got to be up to no good!”

“But what do we do, Albus?” She asked nervously, smoothing her robe. Her face was still red. “If Malfoy’s HERE, now, then shouldn’t we…”

“Malfoy is on the board of governors, Minerva. He has every right to come and use the Library if he wishes.”

“But the boy,” she protested, “He looks horrible, Albus! I’ve not seen anyone look like that since … since … we …”

Dumbledore sighed. “Seamus Finnegan looked almost as bad two summers ago, I know,” he replied in a resigned tone. “But HE adjusted fast. I don’t see why Malfoy would think that it would work for Draco. The Knife is HERE, and he hasn’t had access to it. It wouldn’t work right any other way if he…”

“Do you think he cut the boy? I mean, can’t you FEEL it coming off of him, Albus?” She asked in a worried tone, interrupting him.

Dumbledore nodded. “I’d say that if that boy were to pick up his Wand, he’d blow the whole back wall out now. It’s a wonder that Finnegan has wrecked the Castle yet. But it should NOT have worked, without the Knife, without Draco being Marked! You can’t have TWO of them coming at each other, Minerva. There have NEVER been two Eunuch Wizards here at the same time!”

“But Thomas and Frank wouldn’t lie about such, would they? Could they be mistaken? I mean, we know that Frank liked other boys, but you don’t think that he … I mean, he was ranting, wasn’t he?”

Dumbledore shook his head. “I don’t know what’s going on, Minerva, but for now, we’re just going to wait. I don’t know where this is going. I think it’s going to backfire in Voldemort’s face, however. But we SHOULD run up to the Infirmary and have a look at the boy, just to be sure. Keep your guard up as well. Voldemort’s infiltrated the Castle before, in possessing Professor Quirrell, remember.”

As they dressed formally and headed for the Hospital Wing, Lucius Malfoy was almost crowing in delight in the Library. He’d found just the book he’d needed, buried deeply in the Restricted Section, and he was sure that the plan would work. All they needed was a full moon, some blood of an enemy, and a boy. An intact boy. He copied the formula and Spell precisely, double checked it, and headed out to look for the Knife of Klingsor. His first stop was in the kitchens, which seemed to be the logical place to look for a Knife.

Located just below the Great Hall, the kitchens of Hogwart’s were run by house elves much like Dobby. Malfoy accosted one of them sweeping a hallway, and the elf happily led him to the kitchens where he was offered everything he could have possibly wanted to eat. He thought darkly of Dobby, his own house elf. I wonder what he’s been doing with his time off? Malfoy mused, knowing that elves literally loved to work. A vacation was the worst punishment that one could give them.

Little did he know that his own elf was stalking Harry Potter, and had been all summer long.

“So, I wonder,” he asked them all, as they busily scrubbed the hundreds of ovens and stoves, “If any of you knows where I might find a special knife?”

“What kind’o knife, Master?” One of them squeaked, pulling a drawer open. It was filled with shining silver cutlery, and the elf produced a butter knife, a steak knife, a carving knife … even a huge meat cleaver.

Malfoy showed them all the picture he’d copied.

“Ohhhh, the bad knife!” Several of them cried, rushing about in a frenzy as if Malfoy had just taken a pee in the sink.

“I take it that you’ve seen it before?” He asked hungrily, sipping at his tea that they insisted he have. It wasn’t often that the elves got to meet a school governor, and they were all thrilled senseless. One of them brought him a tray of éclairs.

“Yep,” one of them replied, “But it’s not being in here. Ruby’grid got’s it in ‘is house. Can’t have it in the kitchen, some boy might finds it.” The elf then shivered and held his long-fingered hands over his crotch. “Finds it and does bad things to hisself with it.”

“Thank you,” Malfoy said in an oily tone, rising to go. The words ‘Ruby’, ‘grid’, and ‘house’ had been enough. There was only one other house on the Hogwart’s grounds, and that house belonged to Hagrid the Gamekeeper.

He left the kitchens, made his way down across the lawn, and saw that Hagrid’s windows were all open to let in the summer air. “This is TOO good to be true,” he almost laughed, glancing around to see if anyone was watching and aiming his Wand out of his sleeve. Accio, Knife of Klingsor, he whispered, concentrating on Hagrid’s kitchen. In an instant, there was a crash as a drawer full of silverware spilled and a shining silver object came flying through the air towards him. Malfoy caught the Knife by the jeweled handle and smiled, carefully putting it in a small case he’d brought and slipping it into his coat pocket.

“Now where is that boy?” He smiled, heading back towards the Castle to find Draco.

He was met at the doors by the Bloody Baron, the ghost that haunted Slytherin House.

“Hello, Lucius! Long time, wot?” The Baron asked, drawing his sword.

“Hello, Baron!” Malfoy greeted him, “Yes it’s been ages! Sorry I don’t have my sword and time for a proper duel! How have you been?”

“Horribly boring summer, took a cruise on the Flying Dutchman, but the ship’s really gone to hell this season. What brings you here?”

“Oh just a bit of Library work, you know, Baron, being on the board now and all,” Malfoy dodged, looking about. “Have you seen Draco?”

The Baron turned with a whooshing sound. “Oh my, you don’t know? Follow me! He’s in the Hospital Wing. Some sort of collapse. Hagrid just brought him up!”

Lucius Malfoy ran after the ghost of the Baron, his heart pounding. Not now! He cursed silently, Dammit, he can’t collapse now! We’re not even CLOSE to getting Finnegan, much less the full moon! Dammit Voldemort, how much life have you sucked out of him already?

When Malfoy arrived in the Infirmary, he was met by Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall. Hagrid was sitting by Draco’s bedside, holding him up while Madam Pomfrey maneuvered the limp boy into his pajama top. “What are you doing with him?” He demanded.

Madam Pomfrey, ‘Poppy’ to her friends, turned on Lucius Malfoy with a gleam in her eye that stopped him in tracks. Her white bonnet of a nursing hat waved as she turned. She pointed a rather nasty looking needle at Malfoy and waved it. Then she began to rant.

Lucius Malfoy had endured a great deal in his interesting career, especially in hiding the fact that he was in league with Voldemort and the Death Eaters. He was, however, totally unprepared for the tirade of the Head Nurse of Hogwart’s. Madam Pomfrey described, at high volume, exactly what she was doing with Draco and WHY she was doing it. Dumbledore and McGonagall stood back as she exploded, much like the volcano Krakatoa, or perhaps Vesuvius.

“And he’ll leave when I bloody fucking well say he’ll leave!” She finished, sinking the needle into Draco’s butt as Hagrid rolled him over and injecting him with something that left smoke rolling out of the puncture wound.

“Poppy, language!” McGonagall gasped, red-faced and fanning herself.

“Oh loosen up, Minerva,” she snapped. “Why don’t you fly back to the Azores and pick up where you left off?”

Professor McGonagall rubbed at her nose, realizing that she’d forgotten to wipe the cream off from the beach trip. Dumbledore blushed then, and cleared his throat. “How long will young Master Malfoy be confined?” He asked.

“Weeks,” Madam Pomfrey complained, snugging up his pajama bottoms and tucking him in. Hagrid coughed nervously and laid a moist rag on his forehead. “Don’t think I’m not billing you for this, Malfoy,” she snapped. “I had to cancel some very nice plans thanks to you! What have you done to this poor boy?”

Lucius Malfoy took a step back. “What do you mean, ‘done to him’? If you think for one moment that I’ve …”

But Madam Pomfrey interrupted him. “I won’t say this aloud as it’s none of anyone’s business, Lucius,” she snapped again, angrier than anyone had ever seen her, “But the last time that I saw Draco Malfoy naked was some months ago in here when he somehow got Cursed with Bum-Boils. When I checked him over THEN, he was a BOY, if you know what I mean!” She accused dangerously.

“What are you saying, woman?” Malfoy demanded. “What’s wrong with my son?”

“’E’s a bloomin’ eunuch, you mindless git!” Hagrid snarled at him. “I ‘ad to help Poppy ‘ere get ‘im into his PJ’s ya know, and it was hard ter kinda NOT notice that ‘e’s missing a few things down there!”

“Hagrid!” Professor McGonagall said, a hand going to her bosom in shock.

“Well itz true, sorry, ma’am,” he replied, blushing.

Dumbledore had raised an eyebrow. “So, somehow young Draco has come to be a Eunuch Wizard. Interesting. I’d imagine his Powers are accelerating to an all time high then. Even if it is totally illegal to castrate a boy for that reason in our World, Lucius.”

Malfoy looked as if he were on the verge of apoplexy. He looked from Dumbledore to McGonagall to Pomfrey and Hagrid. Then he looked at his son. It seemed, without Voldemort there in person, that Malfoy saw how bad Draco looked for the very first time. He studied the pale face, the sunken cheeks, listened to the ragged breathing. He stepped up to the boy’s bedside and knelt down. “I knew nothing of this,” he lied.

Hagrid snorted.

“I don’t go about looking over my son when he’s naked, Mr. Hagrid,” he sneered, “Or any other boy for that matter.”

Hagrid stood up, his gigantic frame towering over Draco’s bed. “Now you see ‘ere, you over-pompous stuck-up git…”

“Gentlemen,” Dumbledore snapped, “Please, this is a hospital. Poppy, how long will Draco need to stay?”

Madame Pomfrey thought for a moment, consulted a chart, and nodded. “Two or three weeks, I’d say, given the injections. I’ll have to do an infusion soon; I hope we’ve got enough Mandrake Draught left in stock. We don’t have any mature ones to harvest, it’s the wrong time of year. Never thought I’d have to Restore someone in the middle of the summer.” Then she turned back Mr. Malfoy. “If you didn’t know, and he was fine last month when I fixed the boils, then what happened to him? WHO castrated him?”

Malfoy’s face paled.

Lie to her, he heard a dead voice whisper in his mind. Let her treat him, we have time. Finnegan can wait. He’ll only be more powerful, and Draco will be too.

“I have no idea,” Malfoy replied, “And how dare you accuse ME? Draco is my ONLY son, and a Pureblood Wizard! How DARE you?!”

Just then, Draco coughed and opened one eye. “F-father,” he gasped, “What’s going on? What’s wrong with me?”

“You’re ill, son,” Malfoy told him. “Madam Pomfrey is going to take good care of you.”

But Draco had fallen back to sleep. His father stared at him, his stomach churning. The ends justify the means, he told himself. If a drop of Pureblood must be spilled to wash away an ocean of Mudblood, then so be it. Voldemort will reward me when this is over. And I can have other sons later.

“You are welcome to use the Slytherin Dungeons if you like, Lucius,” Dumbledore offered kindly. “There’s no sense in flying back to the Azores now, especially if someone is stalking about with a Knife looking to castrate our young male students. I think I shall stay and do a bit of snooping myself. Join me, Minerva?” He asked shyly, offering his arm.

“Let’s go talk about it, Albus,” she agreed, “My apologies, Mr. Malfoy.” And they turned to go.

Malfoy snorted and stood up. Hagrid stared at him coldly.

“What?” Malfoy snapped at him.

“I don’ like yer boy, Malfoy,” he growled, bringing himself up to his full height and flexing his arms. “He’s a trouble-maker. An’ I don’ like YOU, neither. But whoever done this ter poor little Draco is gonna hear from me. Gods help ‘em if’n they come after another boy here.”

“Thank you, Hagrid,” Malfoy acquiesced, playing the act to avoid further suspicion. “I think I shall head to Slytherin House now. It’s been a long trip.”

Hagrid nodded and went to clean up to help Madame Pomfrey prepare for the next round of Draco’s treatments.

Draco slept through the night peacefully. Hagrid and Poppy took turns staying up with him and watching. It didn’t surprise them when his father didn’t come back at all until the next day, just as they were waking the boy up for his next wave of treatment. “I cahn’t drink all of that!” Draco was protesting, eyeing the quart-sized container of Mandrake Draught.

“It doesn’t go in your mouth,” informed him with a grin.

“Then how does it get into me?” Draco asked in a know-it-all tone. His father grinned, coming to sit by his bed. “Father!” The boy piped up, looking much better after another round of shots.

Malfoy reached out and took his hand. “How are you, son?” He asked, his face showing no signs of concern.

“My butt cheek hurts. She keeps giving me shots!” Draco complained, seemingly back to his old self again.

“I’ve never seen anyone swing to far in one direction or another,” Madame Pomfrey commented. “This morning he was fine. Last night, he looked like a dead boy walking,” she commented, checking the Mandrake Draught. “Seen plenty of THOSE too, ghastly. And as for how we get it into you, young man with a smart mouth, we get it in by injecting up your tight little butt!”

Lucius Malfoy’s jaw dropped, and for the first time since he could remember, Draco heard his father laugh. “Oh dear,” he mused, facing his son. The color had drained out the boy’s face again, but it wasn’t due to his illness. He began to tremble, even though the room was quite warm.

“What?!” He squeaked, his pale eyes clear and wide.

“You heard me,” she replied, snapping on some rubber gloves and lubing up a white rubber hose that looked like it could well water a garden.

“Y-you’re going to put THAT up my arse?” He breathed, sinking back into his pillows.

“Yes I am,” she told him, pouring the Draught into a red bag. Draco looked stricken. “Oh don’t be such a baby! I gave Harry Potter one at the end of last term, and it worked wonders for him! He didn’t whine about it, either.”

Draco’s white eyebrows shot up. “Well if POTTER can do it,” he spat.

“I think I’ll wait outside with Hagrid,” his father decided quickly, still grinning. Draco sighed and nodded.

When he’d left with Hagrid, Madame Pomfrey attached the white hose to the red bag. “Alright, can you stand?”

Draco hopped up, feeling fine. His legs weren’t shaky and he was very hungry.

“Fine,” she said, nodding, “That’s a good sign. Now, get naked and go over to the toilet area. There’s a small bench there, lay on it with your legs up and spread.”

“B-but … but …” Draco stammered, his face red again, “I cahn’t … I mean …”

“Oh for pity-sake, Malfoy,” Madame Pomfrey she snapped at him, “I’ve seen your bum before, when you had that Boil Curse. And I’ve seen plenty of boys naked, trust me! I AM a doctor, you know! Now go!”

With his head down, Draco did as he was told. He peeled off his pajamas and stood there with his back to her.

“I already know,” she told him in a soft voice. “I saw it when we put you to bed, when we put you in your PJ’s. Oh, Draco,” she sighed, “Who did it to you?”

“I cahn’t say,” he snapped at her, “So don’t ask! It’s my business, isn’t it? I like being a eunuch, and if it’ll make me a better Wizard, then what’s wrong with it?”

“Well for one thing,” she replied in a dangerous tone that deflated him quickly, “The other boys in Slytherin House are bound to make fun of you in the showers or bath, don’t’ you think? AND it’s illegal. Otherwise, there’d be a whole crop of boys in here with genital wounds, wouldn’t there?”

Draco hadn’t thought of that as he stretched out on the bench and she began to spread lubricant on his anus. Very gently, she worked her finger in and out of him and the boy sighed and closed his eyes. It felt strangely good, and he wondered why it did.

“I didn’t’ mean anything by it, Draco,” she told him, hanging up the bag and screwing a large bulbous nozzle to the end of the hose. “I wasn’t making fun or any accusations. It’s very rare to see a Eunuch Wizard these days. I’ve only seen one other in fact,” she commented, “And HE wasn’t happy at all. In fact, he was very sad and lonely.”

“My friends wont’ turn on me,” Draco said confidently, or tried to. But what will they do? They’re afraid of me, and maybe that’s WHY they’re my friends to begin with, he suddenly realized, as a wave of fear began to creep up on him.

“Get ready, and relax,” she told him, placing the nozzle at his bunger.

Draco nodded, and she began to push it in slowly. He moaned and squirmed as his tight little bunger opened up, letting the nozzle slide in slowly. It suddenly seated itself with a quick move once it was in, and Madame Pomfrey released the clip on the hose.

It felt like the nozzle was getting larger and larger inside of him. Draco squirmed as it filled him up, moving around and expanding. The enema solution was very warm, and it made him relax and feel drowsy again. He looked up to see his tummy beginning to expand and gasped.

“We’ll have to leave the solution in until you absorb it all,” she told him, “which means leaving the buttplug nozzle in you, too.”

“For how long?” Draco squeaked in fear, not exactly enjoying what was happening to him. He felt like he had to go, and go bad! He felt like he had to pee, and he also felt like he was getting an erection, which didn’t make sense to him since he no longer had a penis. He looked up to double check.

“Probably the rest of the day, I’d guess,” Madame Pomfrey informed him. “Once the quart is infused into you, you can get up and have a small bite to eat. I don’t want to take a chance on you puking anything up, weak as you are. How long have you been ill?”

“I was fine until we got HERE,” Draco lied, remembering his night at The Wandering Wizard and wishing that Mr. Riddle were there to hold him, to touch him, to make him feel better.

Finally, the infusion was complete. Madame Pomfrey detached the hose, leaving the plug up Draco’s butt as she helped him to hobble back to bed. He toddled awkwardly across the room, his tummy distended a bit. He reached for his PJ’s, but she stopped him.

“With all we’re going to have to do and since you’re going to be bedridden between infusions and such, and I don’t want you jumping up and down to go to the bathroom, you have two choices, Draco. Leave the PJ’s off. Getting in and out of them is too much trouble. You can call for a bedpan when you have to, or you can wear a diaper. Which will it be?”

Draco had just laid back down in bed when she said ‘diaper.’ His eyes went wide, and he jerked the blankets up over his head as the memories came rushing back to him. Despite the liquid filling his guts, the plug filling his butt, and his rumbling tummy that was so swollen, he screamed and began to tremble violently. He fought her when she tried to settle him down, screaming for his father in a pitiful, wailing voice.

Malfoy burst in, a dry voice filling his head. What’s wrong with him? What’s she done to him? Is he alright?

He took the boy in his arms, yelling at him as Draco pummeled at him with his little fists. He was babbling incoherently, tears running down his face. He was pale again and shaking, until Madame Pomfrey ordered his father to hold him tight. She then jabbed his bare bum with a needle full of smoking purple fluid, and Draco collapsed, unconscious.

She then explained what she’d done, and what she’d told him. Malfoy nodded, not wanting any more trouble. Things were going badly astray as it was.

“He’s had a very bad experience with diapers,” he commented. Then he turned to go. “Keep me informed,” he told her, nodding.

“I’ll do just that,” she said as he left, tucking Draco in and getting out a tool that she seldom used. The boy needed to have something substantial in his stomach, and there wasn’t any way she could get it into him with him being unconscious. Reviving him was too great of a risk, as the hysterics weren’t good for him. She studied the strange looking tiny hose for a bit, then pulled out her Wand. She laid the hose on Draco’s pillow with one end on his upper lip and said, “Gastricus insertium.”

Very carefully, the tiny hose snaked its way up the boy’s nose, several feet of it going in and on down to his stomach. When it stopped, she filled a very large syringe with some thick grayish-tan fluid and began to inject it. It traveled up the hose and disappeared with it as it headed down to the boy’s stomach.

“That should do for now,” she sighed, going back to her desk to write up the reports and to call Dumbledore. “Something’s just NOT right here,” she said to herself as she looked out the window at the lovely day she was missing out on.

She stood up then, watching Lucius Malfoy heading towards the Forbidden Forest at a fast walk, his hand over his coat pocket.

Draco was confined for almost two weeks, and Mr. Malfoy spent most of his time in the Slytherin Common Room, reminiscing. He went up to see his son every day, noting his progress and how good he was looking. Indeed, the daily infusions of Mandrake and the heavy suppers was being made to eat seemed to be helping. The boy almost seemed to glow with health, and Madame Pomfrey was rather pleased with herself.

Draco, however, wasn’t too happy with his treatments. “YOU try lying here all day with a plug up your arse and your guts full of stuff!” He complained. “I’m bored!” He stated, squirming about in bed as the plug moved about inside of him. “I can only read so much, you know!”

No one asked them any more questions, however, although it seemed that Dumbledore gave him a great deal of suspicious looks. His blue eyes seemed to stare right into Malfoy’s heart, and it unnerved him. He also didn’t care for the visits that the Headmaster paid Draco every day.

“What if he finds out?” He asked the smoky form of Voldemort, out in the forest.

“He won’t,” the almost insubstantial figure told him. “How is the boy?”

“Doing very well, my Lord, thank you, and yourself?”

“I am anxious to be underway, Lucius,” he replied, “There are plenty of unicorns and other creatures in here for me to live off of, as I did last time. Our time draws nearer, and her ministrations to Draco have been excellent. We must be off for Ireland soon,” he said hungrily, ghosting away into the dark trees.

“As you wish, my Lord,” Malfoy muttered to himself, turning to go back to the Castle. They would be leaving in the morning.