The Commander's handwriting was as crisp and as active as was the Commander himself, and spread rapidly in heavy black ink over numerous sheets. Jack Radcliffe moved away from the mail table in the front hall of Keene's house which involved wading through several dozen other boys in search of letters, and went down the front steps out of the open door. The greens that stood between the four main houses of the school were beginning to fill up with boys eager to put a cold but sunny Saturday afternoon to good use, but the gravel paths led to quieter areas of the grounds and well out of sight of the school building Radcliffe sat down on a low wall to read in peace. Most of the letter was taken up with descriptions of the progress of the H.M.S. Arch Angel, who currently lay in harbour at Hong Kong, and the crew whom Radcliffe knew as well from his father's letters as he did from the few visits he had made to the ship. It was the sharing of such domestic detail that kept a mutual understanding alive in the flow of letters between father and son over the past six years of Radcliffe's schooling. The Commander's grasp upon school life was quite as efficient, and he switched into those subjects as the letter reached its end.

"I hope to hear that Granger and Buchannon enjoyed their holiday. I'm sure that the Buchannons missed you but equally sure that they understood that you should spend this vac with your brother. If you will let Buchannon back into the first fifteen this season do try to encourage him to breaking less bones, either yours or his.

I was glad to hear from you that Harry appears to have settled well into school, much as it is early days. His own letters are appalling misspelt and virtually undecipherable, although the chief stoker could translate some of it as his handwriting is distressingly similar. The luxury of a brother in school to keep an eye out for one is something I wish you might have had at his age. I doubt you will see very much of him day to day, but should you glimpse him in passing I should appreciate knowing he is intact.

Mr Keene tells me you have absolutely no excuse for slacking in Greek this term, and we shall both drop on you from a great height if you show evidence of it. Otherwise keep in mind that balance in all things tends to be a good premise, and enjoy the weather while it lasts. I shall not preach regarding your new position of authority since I have no doubt at all you should skip the rest of this page if I should, but shall just say I have no doubt that you will carry it out to the best of your wisdom and ability, and if you do that then no one will have cause for complaint.

Remember me to your brother and do remind him of the number of 'e's in Tuesday.

Your affectionate

Father."

As he usually did, Radcliffe read the entire missive through twice before he folded and pocketed it. And then, as he had never done before in six years at the school, he got up and went looking for his brother.

It was actually a common enough thing to see on afternoons when the mail was delivered: brothers who gathered together and swapped their letters from home since few parents were unkind enough to send only one letter for all, but it was an entirely new experience to Radcliffe and rather an odd thing to know that the Commander now sent letters to someone else in the school apart from him. Not quite sure of how to do it, he walked until he caught sight of a group of first formers who were easily identifiable from a distance purely because of their diminutive size, and within the group playing football on the lawn he saw his brother's sandy coloured head. Even calling to him was an odd experience, as it involved shouting a name that had only ever been his.

"Hi! Radcliffe!"

Harry paused on the grass and looked round, and then grinned at one of the other kids who said something to him and trotted across to his brother. Radcliffe waited for him, standing well back out of earshot of the other kids.

"Letter from Dad. I thought you might want to see."

Hot, dishevelled and grass stained from the football match, Harry looked a little surprised for a moment, although not at all displeased. Instead he dug in one pocket for a crumpled couple of sheets which he offered to his brother, his bright green eyes frank.

"Thanks. Want to see mine? He sent one to me too."

Radcliffe handed over his letter and straightened out Harry's to glance through it. It brought back rather sharp memories: the Commander's handwriting was decidedly larger and clearer for a less experienced reader, and the subject matter a good deal more pitched to the interests of an eleven year old. Fishing, cricket and a description of Hong Kong took up most of it, but Radcliffe was old enough to recognise the tact and the warmth with which it was written. Commander Radcliffe knew very little of his youngest son, and the links between them were extremely tenuous.

"I can't read most of this," Harry said candidly, handing the letter back. "But thanks. I liked getting a letter. Mother hasn't written anything at all yet."

It was said quite without malice or disappointment, which touched Radcliffe all the deeper. Mrs Radcliffe had been more or less all the family Harry had possessed for the past few years: it did not surprise Radcliffe that she had not bothered to write to her youngest son in his first few days away from home, but it did not endear her any further to him. It was not done to make any gesture of sympathy, particularly before so many witnesses, but Radcliffe pocketed his letter and said rather shortly, "I'm sorry kid. She's probably just busy."

"Probably." Harry agreed, not looking like he minded much. "Can I go and play footer now?"

Stifling a grin, Radcliffe nodded and his brother ran back to the group of first formers, vanishing into the midst of them. As friendly as a puppy and for the first time in his life surrounded with plenty to do and kids his own age, Harry had shown nothing but excitement on the day of his entry in to school, and had disappeared into school life without a ripple within hours of his arrival as though born to it. Radcliffe suspected that in his brother's opinion it was an enormous improvement on home. He had certainly made no demands on his elder brother, which Radcliffe appreciated. Wrestling with the new and detailed requirements of the house Captaincy gave him more than enough to think about.

Leaving his brother making as much noise and getting every bit as filthy as the other first formers, Radcliffe left the kids in peace and went around Keene's to the handkerchief lawn at the back by the fountain, where the great men of the sixth form always gathered for peace, quiet and far more dignified means of leisure. And thus ended the first week.

*

Buchannon, being one of Radcliffe's oldest and closest friends, and possessing far more muscle than brain, broke his collar bone during the Wednesday afternoon first fifteen practice the following week. It was a pretty spectacular tackle and left the scrum half from Vaughan's House groaning with the wind knocked out of him, and Buchannon, who was never particularly quick on the uptake, took Radcliffe's furious diatribes meekly and was dressing after his bath when he commented more with interest than with pain, "I say, my shoulder looks a bit odd."

Granger and Radcliffe, being quite used to him, took that as an alarming sign and Granger made a brief examination of the shoulder in question. After which he and Radcliffe draped Buchannon's shirt around him and steered him, protesting, upstairs to the infirmary.

"He has of course smashed it," Mr Keene confirmed when he dropped into Radcliffe's study that evening where he and Granger were finishing their evening prep. "The doctor's set it, and says he'll be forced to up his bills to the school if we continue to allow Buchannon onto the rugby field. Can't you explain to him Radcliffe? He's like a tank."

"He never means to do damage," Radcliffe said apologetically. "I did tell him what I thought of him; he will throw himself into a fellow without stopping to think, but there's no malice in it at all."

"Oh I know that." Mr Keene said wryly. "God help us all if Buchannon had malice as well as muscle. But the Head wants a word with him this time when he's out of the infirmary, he's getting tired of this game."

Radcliffe and Granger exchanged looks, although Radcliffe thought privately that the Headmaster might possibly make more of an impression on Buchannon's good-naturedly thick skull than he himself had. Mr Keene heaved himself up out of the armchair he had settled into and put his pipe back between his teeth.

"I'd better go and write to Buchannon's people. That's going to leave the first form dormitory without a prefect isn't it Radcliffe? I'd think Buchannon will be in the infirmary for a good week, I can't see Matron trusting him out of her sight."

"That's all right sir," Radcliffe said easily, "I'll move up there until he's fit again."

That was more or less where the trouble began.

Radcliffe, as the Captain of the house was privileged to do, slept in a room of his own on the sixth form landing, although until this term he had like the other prefects been allocated in the name of law and order to be in charge of a junior dormitory. Last term he had been the head of the fourth form dormitory, which tended to be the most demanding, and kept it comfortably and firmly in hand without inspiring the dislike of the fourth formers who occupied it. It was therefore easy enough to pack up what he needed and move down to sleep in Buchannon's bed in the first form dormitory. Buchannon got along well with the youngest kids, which was why Radcliffe had put him into this particular dormitory when allocating prefects as Mr Keene believed firmly in the first formers having a fairly gentle introduction to school life.

"It's not necessary to scare the living daylights out of them at this age," he had said firmly at the prefects' meeting he had attended on the first day of term, officially at Radcliffe's invitation although Radcliffe was well aware that the invitation was a formality only. "For a lot of them this is their first time away from home and they're half the size of half the boys in the house, so keep an eye out that the older forms don't dominate all their space or trample them underfoot. Those of you who were prefects last term all know; we do not use corporal punishment on first formers in their first half term. It shouldn't be needed. If it absolutely is, send the boy in question to me and I'll deal with him myself, but we broke you lot in gently and you can do the same for this lot now."

Buchannon was tolerant enough not to scare them, and as a general rule the first form was easiest simply because in their minds the prefects were grown ups, and because once the prefect on duty had turned the lights out they were usually asleep long before the sixth form came up to bed. Radcliffe brought his belongings down while the first form were getting ready for bed that evening, and being the prefect on evening duty which only basically involved sustaining law and order in the bathrooms, checking that all members of each dormitory were present and turning the lights out at the appointed time for each form, remained with them while the last stragglers got into bed.

"Yes Buchannon's bust his shoulder," he confirmed in answer to the questions. "And yes, I'm sleeping in here until he's out of the infirmary, so hurry up."

He caught sight of his brother's face across the room, slight and pyjamaed with his hair wild as usual and a distinctly happy grin that made Radcliffe stifle a grin in response, rather flattered that the kid should be pleased to see him. That night there were no problems.

The second night it took them rather longer to settle, being lively, chatty and constantly remembering things that they had forgotten to do which involved fleeing from the dormitory amidst much giggles from the others. It took until nearly ten minutes past the time when the lights should have been turned out before they were all in bed.

The third night one of the masters was on evening duty and by the time Radcliffe came upstairs to bed the first and second dormitories at least should have been asleep. As it was Radcliffe was met with a chorus of calls and questions and within a few minutes of his starting to prepare for bed, boys were making requests to collect items forgotten from the bathroom, to go and brush their teeth having forgotten earlier, and once more individuals were racing from the room followed by giggles and calls from the others. Twice Radcliffe was obliged to go to the bathrooms and send first formers back to the dormitory. Harry was one of the worst offenders and in the end Radcliffe ordered them all pretty sharply to get into bed and shut up. He was shocked by the one or two stifled sniffles from under the bedclothes he heard after he turned the lights out, and in the morning reminded them rather more gently of the dormitory rules.

On the fourth night, if he was honest, they simply ran riot.

"Looking rather tired Radcliffe?" Mr Keene commented, passing his house Captain at breakfast. "Bad night?"

Several of the first form seated at their table in the house dining room burst into stifled giggles. To his irritation Radcliffe noted that his brother was amongst them. Giving some polite reply to Mr Keene that he barely even noticed himself, Radcliffe escaped as soon as he could to the sixth form table and dropped into the chair beside Granger, fixing a venomous look towards the first form.

"If that little lot don't put a sock in it-"

"Now now, you've got to be nice to them until after half term." Granger passed him the toast and followed his gaze to the still seething first form table. "What have you been doing to them anyway? They've come downstairs like a London Zoo exhibit for the past two days."

Radcliffe savagely spread marmalade on toast and bit into it, quashing his temper as firmly as he could. Apart from the fact that it was not done to whine about one's siblings, it was hardly possible for the Captain of the House to admit that he was unable to control seven first form boys.

He reflected on the fact throughout his morning lessons, which drew down a sharp rebuke from the Geography master and a distinctly chilly look from the Headmaster who took the sixth form for Latin before lunch and was eventually driven to dropping a copy of Virgil heavily on Radcliffe's desk to attract his attention.

"Radcliffe, I should hate to think I was boring you." He said courteously when Radcliffe jumped and hastily looked up. "Perhaps you would find this a little more edifying if you were to continue for us?"

Bewildered and not having heard a word of the lesson so far, Radcliffe looked at his open book and got to his feet, receiving a sharp kick in the ankle and a hiss from Granger behind him.

"Page eighteen, line thirty four, ASS."

Thanking heaven for having made a thorough job of the previous evening's prep, Radcliffe found the place and made a sufficiently decent construe that the Headmaster once more resumed his place behind his desk and made no further comment.

"WHAT were you doing?" Granger demanded in the corridor as they left the sixth form classroom for lunch. "I was trying for ages to catch your eye, you were miles away."

"Just daydreaming." Radcliffe said with false cheer. Granger snorted.

"About the first form, yes, I could hear your teeth grinding. Less a dream than a nightmare. What's going on Rad?"

The problem with spending the majority of your time with someone since the age of eleven, was that they got extremely difficult to lie to. And Granger, who was as tall as Radcliffe but a good deal slighter and sharper, missed very little. He took Radcliffe by the elbow and gave him a shove out of the side door into a deserted courtyard as the school poured through the main doors and across to their various houses.

"What? I could hear your dorm still trampling about last night after I'd gone to bed, I nearly came down to see what was happening."

"They're just a handful." Radcliffe said lightly. "Not even been in school three weeks yet-"

"You're taking that as an excuse?" Granger demanded. "Come off it. Pearson put you into the fourth form dormitory last term because no one else could manage them and you didn't let them get away with a thing!"

"I knew what to do with them!" Radcliffe retorted. Granger shook his head.

"I saw you take a cane in there exactly once. Remember? The first night. After that you had no more trouble than the rest of us, and a good deal less than some. You're not like some of the twerps in Howell's house who only keeps order by shouting and threats. It was why Pearson wanted you to take the house Captaincy over when he left."

"Well maybe he made a mistake." Radcliffe said rather bitterly. Granger, who had propped himself against the wall and folded his arms, gave him a sharp snort.

"That's self pitying rubbish and you ought to be kicked for it. If I wasn't the brains of this outfit I'd do it too. It's because your brother's in that dorm, isn't it?"

"I treat him like everyone else!" Radcliffe protested. Granger straightened up off the wall.

"Then there's your problem to start with. If my brother gave me half that trouble I'd take him somewhere quiet and straighten him out before I even thought about anyone else, and he'd have to have a seriously good reason for showing me up in front of anyone else in the school. To do him credit, he'd be ashamed to."

"It's not like that with us," Radcliffe said rather feebly.

"Then make it like that." Granger told him bluntly. "If you're going to acknowledge you're related to the kid you might as well treat him like family. Get a grip. And come on, or we'll miss lunch."

"You're going to make someone a wonderful wife." Radcliffe muttered, following Granger towards Keene's house and dodging the kick aimed in his direction.

*

It still being warm and light in the evenings, lessons ended at three thirty with a full hour and a half before tea and prep. As soon as he escaped from the classroom Radcliffe went looking for his brother outside amongst the small crowds gathering to play football, to read or to head down towards the river. The first form, whose bounds were rather tighter than the rest of the school's, were usually easier to find but on this afternoon Radcliffe couldn’t find any of them. Having searched the grounds he eventually tracked his way back towards the main school and rather to his surprise saw through the window the entire first form, none of whom looked very happy, still seated in their form room. It was some time before any of them were released. Radcliffe waited in the courtyard outside and captured the first of the small boys as they emerged, nodding towards the classroom.

"What's going on?"

The boy looked rather sullen but answered promptly enough, feeling as most of the first form did that the sixth form equated more or less as grown ups.

"We got kept in. Some of them kept on messing about."

It wasn't fair to ask for names or identities. Radcliffe let the boy go and gave the first form classroom a fulminating look, picking out the faces of the boys still seated there. Harry was amongst them of course. Naturally. Teach the kid that he could tease a prefect and run riot without harm, and of course he'd then try it out on a master. Uncomfortably aware that he had taught the entire first form population of Keene's a rather misleading lesson about the school, and one that was likely to end painfully for them, Radcliffe dug his hands in his pockets and went for a walk to think about things, missing tea in the process. And before very long the route led through the front door of Keene's and up to Mr Keene's study.

The study was somewhere he had been coming at regular intervals since he first entered the school since it was one of the principle rooms of Keene's house and Mr Keene involved himself discreetly but pervasively in the lives of all his boys. Whether related to work, invitations to tea, petitions, requests, tutoring or disciplinary matters, few boys got very far through the house without coming to know this particular room very well indeed, and Radcliffe, who had depended upon the school for loco parentis since his parents' divorce, knew it better than most. It was filled to equal capacity with pipe smoke and books, the books filling shelves from floor to ceiling on two walls and the pipe smoke doing very much the same thing. Mr Keene, comfortably slouched in a chair behind his desk and reading through third form compositions, looked up at Radcliffe's entry and gave him a cheerful nod.

"Radcliffe. What can I do for you?"

Radcliffe, steeling himself and coming to stand before the desk, took a deep breath and made a clean breast of the whole, beginning with the disgraceful business in the dormitory and moving on to the entire difficulty with his brother, not excluding Granger's view of the situation. Mr Keene listened in silence and continued to smoke his pipe, until Radcliffe finally ground to a halt in his list of abject self accusations. He remained in silence for a moment more, which left Radcliffe still more bitterly ashamed of himself and hearing nothing but the reassuringly steady ticking of the old and battered clock on the mantel.

"So what are you going to do about it?" Mr Keene asked eventually.

The tall and rather unhappy young man on his hearthrug gave him a look of mingled shame and determination.

"Sort the dorm out for a start sir. I'm sorry this happened. I've let this go far enough that I'll have to report the whole dorm to you; they can't go on thinking they can act like this. No one else would have let them."

"So I'm going to have to whack an entire dormitory of first formers, in their third week at school?" Mr Keene inquired, raising an eyebrow. "I think that might be a record Radcliffe."

Radcliffe, already rather flushed, gave him a look of sincere apology but nodded.

"I know sir. It's entirely my fault, I should never have let this happen and I know we don't whack first formers in their first half term if we can avoid it, but they do have to be choked off now and properly before things go any further."

"I agree." Mr Keene said simply. "But I have to say I don't think the Head is going to be terribly happy about this. It isn't the way we prefer to introduce new boys to the school."

The bell rang from upstairs in the house and Radcliffe reflexively glanced at the clock. It was approaching eight pm and that was the first bedtime bell for the first form. Mr Keene shifted his pipe more securely to the side of his mouth and got up, going to a cupboard that Radcliffe was uncomfortably familiar with. Small and with the doors covered in green leather, it stood latched and both doors swung open as the latch was turned. Mr Keene glanced through the contents for a moment, and then withdrew from it a deceptively small, light looking, brown leather slipper which he held out.

"Three with that, over pyjamas. You've seen me do it. And when you're done, come back down here."

That was not at all what Radcliffe had been expecting. And yet it was, when he thought about it, quite right. He was the one who needed to gain the respect of the dormitory; it was his responsibility.

"Yes sir." He said as matter of factly as he could, accepting the slipper with some qualms. Mr Keene resumed his seat behind his desk, picking up his compositions once more.

"Bear in mind that they are only children, Radcliffe, but children who certainly need not act like savages. And make it clear this is for ragging in dorm, that's all. Matters between siblings need dealing with between siblings."

The message of that was as pointed as the tone.

Grasping the slipper, Radcliffe let himself out of the study and took himself up the stairs towards the dormitories. On the way, he tried an experimental thwack of its flexible sole against his thigh and winced, startled at the strength of the smack and the sting. That little brown slipper was well known in the house.

Radcliffe had never felt it himself. Having been a really rather well behaved boy the worst he had ever received were a few, swift and painfully precise whacks with the cane Mr Keene used on the older boys. He kept that slipper for the youngest in the house, the little boys, and for particular crimes. Exactly by what definition Mr Keene grouped those crimes Radcliffe wasn’t entirely sure, but he had known more than one trouble maker or particularly difficult kid in the junior forms come out of this study tearstained and extremely thoughtful about causing further trouble, and the little boys, the eleven and twelve year olds, loathed and dreaded the slipper far more than the cane as a statement on their immaturity. There was some dignity in the cane; being put across your housemaster’s knee was a disgrace. And it was no heavy gym shoe either. It was a thin, flexible leather carpet slipper that any of the youngest kids could tell you stung like hell and could be used for what felt like ages, leaving nothing more than with a very hot, scarlet and extremely tender backside and not one mark to show for it. Worse still, it was when necessary administered by Mr Keene across the bare behind, which made the experience more acute in every conceivable way.

The sound of rioting in the first form dormitory was perfectly audible from the stairs beyond the closed door.

Radcliffe took a breath. And then opened the door, stepped through and shut it quietly behind him. Some kind of battle was in progress; three boys, Harry among them, were piled on another two who were using pillows as weapons, and the noise level had reached the pitch that only small boys can achieve. Pitching his own voice to a level above theirs, Radcliffe raised it sharply and clearly.

"Get up! Now!"

It was a tone they had never yet heard used in school, and Radcliffe was aware of the sudden absence of sound as seven kids stopped dead in their tracks and realised not only the expression on his face but what he held in his hand.

"I explained," Radcliffe said, more quietly but extremely clearly as the boys hurriedly got to their feet, "Exactly what the rules of the dormitory were. Pick those pillows up"

Pillows were picked up. Swiftly. Seven small boys rushed to collect them and to equally quickly retire to their beds. Radcliffe did not move from where he stood, lifting the slipper to tap it lightly against his palm. The dormitory was very quiet with the apprehensive hush of little boys not at all sure that they hadn't gone too far. Radcliffe let them look for a moment, well aware of seven abruptly pale faces and pairs of large eyes fixed on the slipper in his hand. They were all in pyjamas, all sitting on or in their beds, and Harry, at the end of the line on the right, swallowed visibly and rather hard. His brother felt little sympathy. Instead he took one of the wooden chairs that stood between the beds and put it in the middle of the dormitory floor, and said with the same tone of command he used when ordering a first fifteen scrum, "All of you, line up here. Now."

They came, promptly enough to prove their level of nervousness, but the line hovered rather further back out of reach than the point on the floor to which he had initially indicated.

"You've been cut," Radcliffe said quite matter of factly, "A good deal of slack, because you're new and you're kids, but there are limits. You wouldn't expect to get away with that kind of idiocy at home and you might as well realise right now that I'm certainly not having it in the dorm."

"But the second form said," Harry said feebly, "No one would whack us no matter what until after half term-"

The second form were in for an interesting conversation in the morning. Radcliffe gave his brother a short nod.

"Then the second form didn't trouble to tell you there's such a thing as pushing too far."

He took a seat on the chair and nodded to the first boy. "Three each. Come on."

Extremely hesitantly the boy moved towards him and Radcliffe took his arm, guiding the boy against his right side and waiting until the boy rather stiffly and certainly unwillingly bent over his knee. Putting a firm hand on his shoulders to keep him there, Radcliffe raised the slipper and brought it down briskly and sharply across the small, tightly stretched and blue striped pyjama seat. The flexible slipper sole landed with a loud crack, the other six boys in the line visibly jumped and the boy across Radcliffe's lap jerked, although he was apparently too shocked to make any more coherent response. The slipper dealt a good, solid smack but it was too pliant and much too light to do any more damage than a hearty sting, and Radcliffe did not hold back in the two further very accurate whacks he administered, both of which elicited a stifled yell from his recipient. The boy rose at the end of his three, red faced and watering eyed, and at Radcliffe's order to get to bed, departed hurriedly with his hands clutching the point of insult.

"Next." Radcliffe said just as sharply, fixing the next boy in line with a glare.

They apparently didn't dare delay, despite that he was aware for some of these boys this was their first experience of corporal punishment: not one of the boys made him wait or resisted. Each when called stepped up and bent over his lap without protest although with faces that expressed deep trepidation, and the thin pyjamas gave very little protection. Radcliffe dealt each small bottom three just as vigorous smacks squarely across the middle with the slipper, and the boys were small enough that the slipper covered a good proportion of the target with each spank. Each rose with watering eyes- three actually in tears- and scuttled without further comment to their bed. The line of boys awaiting their turn stood with wide eyes and horrid fascination, several clutching quite unconsciously at their pyjama trousers while they watched. Harry was fourth in the line and no different at all to the others – he moved quickly when called to, bent across his brother's lap without any enthusiasm but without the nerve to dally, and received his three sound whacks with three stifled yells of shock and discomfort as the slipper smacked hard across the tightly cottoned seat of his pyjamas. As he rose Radcliffe gave him a nod and a very curt,

"Stand aside."

And without protest, his hands over his behind and his eyes rather red, Harry stood to one side. The dormitory was absolutely quiet when the last boy fled towards his bed, the only sound at all the occasional sniffle and gulp although every small face looked a good deal more shocked than traumatised. Radcliffe rose, put the chair back in its place and put a hand on his brother's shoulder, taking him out of the dormitory and closing the door behind them.

The second form was also now in bed and the third form beginning their ablutions in the bathroom. Radcliffe took Harry in the other direction, up the hall towards the box room where the trunks were kept, and the noise and chatter and sounds of water faded as he closed that door too. Harry gave his brother a distinctly anxious glance as Radcliffe seated himself on a trunk, the slipper still in hand.

"I'm sorry, I won't-"

"If you think I will tolerate this kind of nonsense," Radcliffe interrupted quite bluntly, quoting freely from his father, "You've got another think coming. Not from any kid here and certainly not from my brother. Drop your pyjamas."

Harry blanched visibly. "But I-"

"But nothing." Radcliffe interrupted firmly, less angry now than beginning to realise what it was he intended to say. Up until now he had been more or less making it up and acting for form's sake, but at this point he began to see clearly and to speak with genuine feeling.

"You don't act the goat and you don't hope being my brother means you'll get away with it. You won't. You'll just get it twice. Once from me as the house Captain and then again from me as your brother because I won't have my brother play the fool. And you'll hear the same from any kid in the school with an older brother here. Apart from that, you should know I'll always stick up for you, but I expect you to stick up for me too. How do you think it feels for the rest of the house to see my own brother mixed up in ragging against me in my dorm?"

Harry's bright green eyes were wide and not just with apprehension. The boy looked genuinely startled as he stood there in the blue striped school pyjamas, small and with his hair in his eyes, his feet bare, and his hands still unconsciously over the seat of his trousers.

"I didn't think of it like that," he said quite honestly, sounding troubled. "It was just fun - I didn't think it mattered."

"Well it does." Radcliffe said bluntly. "And I won't have it. Pyjamas Harry, or I'll do it for you."

With a great lack of enthusiasm but nevertheless fairly promptly, Harry untied his pyjama trousers and Radcliffe took his arm, turning his small brother not just to lean over his knee but lifting and laying him full over his lap, his feet off the floor and his bare and already reddened behind upturned. Laying one firm hand over Harry's back, he raised the slipper and without further comment applied it in six sound and unhurried spanks, each one of which effectively covered both cheeks. The slipper was apparently a good deal more tangible on the bare. Harry jerked energetically at the first stroke and yelled, kicking, although courageously he did not struggle to move from his position. The fourth spank brought tears and it took all of Radcliffe's efforts then not to soften. Remembering the scenes in the dormitory he simply held his wriggling brother in place and administered the fifth and sixth strokes just as hard and without hurry, with a strong desire to see that Harry made no attempt to try this kind of trick on anyone else. Holding the kid still over his knee, he lowered the slipper and waited a moment until Harry's gulping began to quieten, and then asked pointedly, "That night I snapped at you lot and I heard crying. Was anyone really blubbing, or was that acting for my benefit?"

Harry squirmed anxiously which gave the answer, but he still answered apologetically and quickly. "We were acting. Just part of the joke."

"Doesn't look like you're finding it too funny now." Radcliffe observed. He landed the slipper lightly once more in a tap more than a spank and put his brother back on his feet, watching him hurriedly draw up and tie his pyjamas before he rubbed hard at his bottom, his face red and wet.

"I heard the first form were kept in this afternoon for ragging in form." Radcliffe said to him quietly. "Don't join in with that kind of thing, and tell the other kids not to. Apart from that it's not done, the Head takes a very dim view of it and it's a quick way to find out what a caning's like. They don't cane junior age kids unless they absolutely have to, but that's one of the ways to make them have to."

Still gulping, Harry gave him an earnest nod. Hair still in his eyes and needing cutting, he looked quite ridiculously young in his pyjamas; far younger than Radcliffe remembered feeling when he was a first former and had been convinced in his own mind he was long past childhood. It was the first time he had really understand why Mr Keene and the school authorities in general put the emphasis on introducing the youngest kids to the school as carefully as they did. Taking advantage of the two of them being alone together, Radcliffe gave into temptation and ruffled the kid's hair, and rather to his surprise Harry turned roughly against him in an action that was more or less a shove but which left him leaning against his brother's shoulder. Somewhat clumsily Radcliffe put an arm around him and patted his shoulders, and it was a moment before Harry stepped away, rubbed his face fiercely and gave his brother a somewhat defiant look that dared him to suggest that he had been crying. Radcliffe got up and pushed the slipper into the pocket of his blazer.

"Come on. Get to bed; I'll put the lights out."

"Radcliffe?" Harry said, hesitating.

"Jack." Radcliffe corrected. "When there's only you and me, Jack is fine."

"Jack," Harry repeated, standing his ground. The startlingly green eyes were no longer teary but extremely acute. "Do you mind having me for a brother?"

Cats' eyes, Jack thought abstractedly, and shook his head, finding that he could answer quite sincerely.

"No. Of course I don't. Why would I?"

*

Mr Keene had a good understanding of how boys worked, and they not finding much mystery at all to him, liked him in return. He didn’t say much and what he did say was to the point; he meant what he said and he had an easy going, unshockable exterior that along with the brown suits, pipe smoke and the comfortable middle aged spread, made him an exceptionally good house master. He knew the note of the rather tentative knock at his door that came perhaps twenty minutes after the lights went out in the first form dormitory, and the sight of his house Captain raised a rather incongruous urge in Mr Keene to smile. Adult sized, but with the boy still clearly visible in face and body if you knew where to look, Radcliffe stood before him confused, ashamed and rather angry with himself. And with no idea at all what to do about it. He had been much the same from the age of eleven, extremely ready to blame himself, quick to sink into heavy weather of crushing self expectation. It was one of the reasons that the practical Granger and impervious Buchannon were so good for him. The leather slipper was in his hand, and Mr Keene knew Radcliffe well enough to know that however shattered he might look now, the first form were safely and effectively dealt with.

“Well you’ve been abysmally stupid, haven’t you?” He said, leaning forward to tap out his pipe. His voice wasn’t at all critical or unkind and Radcliffe nodded just as wryly, closing the study door behind him.

“Yes sir." He took a breath and Mr Keene knew well what was coming even before Radcliffe cleared his throat. "Sir- if you think I shouldn’t be a prefect then I understand-“

Painfully said, with all the stiff honourability and anxious self flagellation of which Radcliffe was capable. Mr Keene interrupted him briskly and without compunction.

”Oh belt up Radcliffe. Everyone behaves stupidly at times. I’d rather have someone in charge of the boys in this house who understands about making an honest mistake, than some plaster saint. Them I have no use for.”

Deeply embarrassed, Radcliffe looked down at his hands, and then back at Keene who was peaceably stuffing his pipe.

"Sorry sir."

Mr Keene put a match to his pipe and sucked on it for a minute, puffing until the fresh tobacco started to glow. “I don’t see how this is going to make much difference. You’ve done the right thing. You've got the boys sorted and you'll have no more trouble with them, and you came and told me when you got out of your depth. I’ll speak to the Headmaster myself and it’ll blow over. You are however going to have that prefectorial rump of yours whacked, not just for the good of your soul and morals but deservedly so for being a blasted idiot.”

Radcliffe went red to the ears, but said nothing more than a very quiet, “Yes sir.”

“I don’t generally whack great louts like you without very good reason, but this is certainly a good reason.” Mr Keene said genially, getting to his feet.

Radcliffe watched and swallowed, a little surprised at the amount of churning in his stomach. Eighteen, and a level headed and solid character, it had been a good three years since he last bent over in this room, and while he remembered the unpleasant and scorching sting of a few brisk cracks of the cane across the trousers, it was symbolic more than anything else. Painful and a kid’s punishment. It was, Radcliffe thought, gritting his teeth as Keene moved towards the cupboard where his canes were kept, the indignity of having to bend over to be whacked that was what he dreaded; the childishness of the act. He had never found that easy. The sting while appallingly acute at the time, was brief and quickly passed. No man was afraid of that. However Mr Keene did not get as far as his cupboard. He simply stood before Radcliffe and held out a hand, and while Radcliffe stared, sure for a moment that the man had made a mistake, Mr Keene reached over and took the leather slipper gently out of his grasp.

“Sir-“ Radcliffe began, horrified and bewildered. Keene took a seat on the over stuffed sofa against the wall, pipe still gripped between his teeth.

“You’re a little big to go over my knee on a chair. Come along over here and you can take some of that weight on the sofa. I suppose I ought to be grateful you're not Buchannon.”

”Sir, I’ll bend over a chair-“ Radcliffe began, in more confusion than Mr Keene was used to seeing his sixth formers in, and which he thought was extremely salutary. The little boys simply flushed scarlet, shuffled their feet miserably and went where they were put over his knee, limp, demoralised and publicly dismissed as Little Boys.

“No,” he said quite amiably. “I’ll have you here thank you Radcliffe. And we’ll have those trousers down please. Pants too.”

He made no effort to hurry the process, nor to give any impression of hurry, quite well aware that this was equally salutary for the large, leggy young man standing now extremely red faced on his hearth rug.

There was nothing else to do. Radcliffe looked in silent pleading at Mr Keene who looked back, chewing benignly on his pipe with that damned slipper in his hand and went on sitting there, waiting. Face burning, Radcliffe, feeling extremely stupid and very small despite a height of six foot, slowly began to unbutton his trousers. Was there anything worse than to have to stand before this man, someone he respected and admired, who he had hoped respected him, and strip himself to be spanked like a little boy? And yet he had surrendered himself into this man’s hands as a boy, knew and trusted his authority, and his surrender was without question. Hands sweating, somehow, Radcliffe forced himself through the discipline of pushing down his trousers, and then with still greater difficulty and going nearly dark purple with embarrassment, untied his drawers. It was harder to lower them and took him a moment of fumbling that was actually the hesitation of extreme embarrassment and a wild hope that Mr Keene might spare him this last, dreadful step. Mr Keene made no comment. Somehow Radcliffe forced himself to push down his drawers to join his trousers at mid thigh- he could bring himself to lower them no further, and stood with his hands twitching restlessly, his shirt covering his decency.

“Come along then.” Keene said genially, patting his knee with his free hand.

How?

Radcliffe took a step towards him, trying to see how to do this appalling deed – the little boys could bend without much difficulty, of a size to be laid across the lap of this still large and well built man. Radcliffe, his equal in build and nearly in height, had no such ease. In the end he had to place a hand on Mr Keene’s knee and lower himself, stiffly, coming to rest with his head and torso on the cushions of the couch, his legs stretched out behind him and his rump humiliatingly raised over Keene’s lap. Mr Keene turned back the tail of his shirt and Radcliffe buried his scarlet face in his arms, well aware that his behind was entirely bared and open to view. Mr Keene settled his shirt well above his hips, an arm came to rest across his lower back and a large hand gently patted broad, bare cheeks above legs stiff with tension.

“A little further forward I think please Radcliffe. Just a touch more? Excellent."

It was appalling. To have to lie over the man's lap, to be draped there feeling the warmth of his thighs and the roughness of his trousers, and the heavy and comfortable warmth of an arm wrapped securely around his waist, drawing him close against a well rounded and soft stomach as though he would commit the indignity of wriggling and squirming like a boy little enough to have to be laid over the knee to be punished. And with backside not just bared but tipped up over the man's knee; not just bared but upturned, positioned and proffered for the spanking. It was actually a familiar position, but one that Radcliffe associated deeply with his father, with rather powerful memories of being a good deal smaller, guilty and unhappy at having disappointed the Commander, as well as distinctly unhappy about what was about to be done to his behind in the name of justice. Although in an odd balance to that, he had always felt perfectly safe. His father was an extremely fair man, not giving to making a fuss over trifles, and while demanding, his expectations were justified and clear: Radcliffe had no recollection of any unfair or undeserved punishment, and it had never disturbed the amity between father and son.

Seventeen was far too old to be spanked; it was not to be borne. And yet Radcliffe lay where he was, faced with the old, chintz fabric of the sofa, the strong arm around him, and didn't struggle. The slipper's cool and smooth leather sole rested on the nearest cheek of his bottom and tapped gently.

"All right old man." Mr Keene said genially. "I think you'd better tell me why this was a bad idea of yours?"

Radcliffe licked extremely dry lips. And jerked in spite of himself as the slipper abruptly slapped smartly down across one broad and muscular bare cheek. It stung – it definitely stung and left a smarting heat behind – but it was only a spank for goodness sakes, just the slap on the rump you'd give a disobedient child. The slipper spanked his other cheek, leaving the smarting heat there for a few seconds. Radcliffe flushed a deeper and darker red of humiliation, forcing himself to lie still under the slapping when he would have wriggled in sheer embarrassment. The few seconds' unbearable smart of the cane would have been far, far easier to endure than this pathetic sting, repeating from cheek to cheek. Radcliffe, six foot tall and solid muscle, was laid over a master's lap with his trousers down like a naughty six year old, and was having his bottom smacked.

"I er – I'm not sure sir I –"

"Come now Radcliffe," Keene said mildly, "You can express yourself more clearly than that, Sandhurst won't accept 'I'm not sure sir'."

Radcliffe swallowed hard, wishing that Mr Keene would just get on with it and not expect him to talk at the same time.

"It was a bad idea because I thought the kids would just settle on their own – or no I didn't. It was because Harry was there and I didn't want to drop on him, even when he and the others were messing about."

"Afraid of favouritism?" Mr Keene inquired, not breaking his rather unpredictable rhythm although the slipper was operating a little harder now. Radcliffe shook his head, dimly aware that the sting was definitely increasing.

"Not exactly-" he shifted, uncomfortable and still more embarrassed at his age of showing it. The slipper continued to operate without regard for whether he was embarrassed or not. "- he doesn't expect favouritism at all. Poor kid doesn't really expect anything- ah-"

The mutter slipped out without his permission in response to a particularly acute stroke. Mr Keene took no notice, continuing to use the slipper every bit as smartly. Radcliffe bared his teeth against his arm, not at all sure if he was spanking harder or whether repetition was simply rendering the target more sensitive.

"Doesn't expect….?" Mr Keene said mildly. Radcliffe drew a sharp breath, trying not to commit the indignity of squirming which his rear end was trying to do all by itself to evade the steady slaps.

"I had to tell him to call me Jack when we're on our own – ow –"

Mr Keene did not respond, kindly pretending he had not heard. Radcliffe drew another breath, trying not to hold it.

"- his blasted mother hasn't written to him at all. Dad has, but his mother hasn't sent a word. Nothing. He hardly knows Dad, he doesn't really care if Dad writes or not but he lived with his mother-"

Mr Keene tactfully did not point out that Mrs Radcliffe remained Radcliffe's mother as well, as his house Captain paused for breath and thought, words starting to break free in short and angry rushes.

"I don't mind the kid being here, I did a bit at first, but he's happier here than he was at home and I was too busy feeling odd about him being here and being sorry for him to think about what I was doing until it was too late and I'd let him get into trouble."

"I'm not sure," Mr Keene commented, aiming a little lower and a little harder, "That he is actually your problem. Don't wriggle Radcliffe."

"He IS my problem," Radcliffe protested. "Dad sent me home to meet him before term because he was my problem,"

"He is actually my problem." Mr Keene corrected mildly, "He is your brother. There is a difference. I suspect 'problem' translates as responsibility. Does your father expect you to be responsible for him?"

Radcliffe drew another less steady breath, beginning to grimace as the slipper was now making its presence very acutely felt and to a degree Radcliffe would not have thought possible.

"He said in his letter- ow, sir – he said something about I wouldn't see much of him – and he wanted to know if he- Harry – was intact-"

"That doesn't sound much to me as though he expects you to stand guard over him." Mr Keene observed. "How you feel about the brothers part I believe is entirely up to the two of you to work out for yourselves. I expect my house Captain to do the competent work for which he is well able and to keep his mind on the job. And to think before he acts- feet down please and keep your legs still - while limiting the period of thought to a finite limit. Sometimes, Radcliffe, it is quite necessary just to go with one's instincts instead of trying to concentrate entirely on substantiating the facts."

Since Radcliffe's instincts at that point were suggesting an extremely vigorous course of action and it was taking a great deal of effort to dampen them down and to remain lying relatively still and quiet in place under that now heartily active slipper, Radcliffe was unable to appreciate that piece of advice. He was beginning to reach a point of horrified despair that this was going to last forever. Mr Keene folded his arm a little tighter over Radcliffe's hips and said nothing more, instead concentrating entirely and with kindly persistence on the positioning and snap of the flexible leather in his hand, utilising a good many years of expertise. Radcliffe was by no means the first senior boy he had discreetly managed in this manner, and he was quite able to interpret the signs of success as he began to address the lowest curves of Radcliffe's backside and the tender top of his thighs which induced a good deal of insubordinate wriggling before Radcliffe's caught breaths began to grow unsteadier. He was crying freely when Mr Keene finally laid the slipper down on the sofa beside him. Released, Radcliffe got up and hurriedly re dressed himself, wiping as discreetly as he could at his wet face. Mr Keene got up too and rested a heavy hand on the back of his neck, shaking gently.

"The best of us make mistakes and that's one you won't make again. You didn't go to tea, did you?"

Radcliffe shook his head, wanting nothing more than to escape and go somewhere very quiet for a while. "No sir, but-"

"Then sit down and eat with me. Yes Radcliffe, you're not going to bed half starved as well as short on sleep."

Extremely tender, Radcliffe sat gingerly on the indicated armchair and Mr Keene leaned over to put the kettle on the fire and to open a tin of scones.

"There's jam on the shelf behind you – and knives. Pass a couple down. Where is your father's ship at the moment?"

Looking at the boy's face far more than listening to his answer, Mr Keene accepted knives and plates and watched his house Captain rapidly pull himself together, a good deal less confused and if Mr Keene was any judge, starting to feel a good deal better.

*

Buchannon was released from the infirmary by the school doctor nine days after the break with his arm still tightly strapped to his side and dire threats from the Matron as what she intended to do to him if she found him doing anything but walking sedately. The Headmaster sent for him that afternoon, and while Granger and Radcliffe delicately did not ask what had been said, Buchannon emerged from the interview distinctly paler and quieter and a good deal more subdued than was usual. He returned to his own bed that evening, and Radcliffe returned to his own room upstairs, handing over what was once more a quiet and well ordered first form dormitory.

Commander Radcliffe's next epistle came some days later in response to Radcliffe having sat down the day after his interview with Mr Keene and poured out the full story in a letter to his father. Most of it was as usual the domestic news they enjoyed sharing, the details and anecdotes of two separate lives, but there was one paragraph that Radcliffe immediately homed in on.

"To the best of your wisdom I said." The Commander had written. "Wisdom evolves, you're not born with it. You went to Mr Keene which is what I'd expect you to do when you knew you'd made a mistake. From what Harry tells me the boys got nothing more than they thoroughly deserved and no harm was done. He appears to think none the less of you for it and as Mr Keene told you, that isn't a mistake you'll make again so think no more of it. Incidentally. My dear boy. Do teach Buchannon to play chess.

Your ever affectionate

Father."