Thanks

The taste of dirt filled his mouth, and his knee was throbbing with pain. The young boy rolled over from his position face down in the mud and made attempts to sit up. His chin was quivering, and his huge brown eyes were filled with tears, which were threatening to spill. He had just taken a rather nasty fall off his broomstick after a game of Quidditch with some of the other Gryffindor boys had got a bit carried away.

"Help! Somebody! It hurts! It hurts!" the boy cried as the tears escaped from his eyes.

There were sounds of running feet and an older boy - tall, broad and in his teen years - knelt beside the little one, dropping his broom as he did so. "What hurts?"

"My knee! My knee, it hurts!" he cried, pointing to his right leg. The older lad observed the knee and realized that it was only a small scrape, not even bleeding. He lifted the boy into his arms and walked to the edge of the Quidditch pitch, where he set the youngster down in the stands.

"Do you know what?"

"No, what?" the little brunette snuffled.

"I think you're going to be just fine."

"But it hurts! It really, really hurts!" The youth began to bawl his eyes out again.

"You'll be fine, I promise," he assured the little one. "What can I do for you?"

The kid's face creased as he thought hard, sticking his tongue out in the effort. Suddenly, he seemed to brighten considerably as he pointed at the tall lad's brown leather Keeper's gloves. "Let me wear those!"

A smile crossed his features as the young man slipped off the gloves. He passed them to his little companion, who put them on with a grin. They were far too big for him, but the kid did look much happier and had finally stopped crying. The older teen put his arm around his little friend's shoulders as they both sat down again. "You know, every great Quidditch player takes a dive to the ground now and then."

"Really?"

"Sure!"

"Did you ever hurt yourself?"

With a smile, the older lad thought of the many times he had fallen and seriously injured himself and others. Chuckling, he finally answered, "Too many times to count."

"And what happened?"

"I learned to think before I made a move, Dennis."

"How?" The little boy kept asking questions and adjusting the gloves. He was trying to get them to look like they did just before the boy he looked up to made a spectacular catch. After about seven or so more questions, the little boy no longer looked as if he had been crying and was laughing along with the older one. The lad offered to walk the little Quidditch player to the Great Hall, so they began to exit the pitch. Dennis held onto the other's hand tightly, swinging it just a little bit.

"Can I keep the gloves for the night and tell my friends about what you told me?"

"Sure, kid. If you like, I can spell them to make them fit you better."

"Thanks, Oliver."

"No problem." He grinned.