Prologue: Strength is Everything
From the exclusive interview of James Potter; Strength of Potter;
"What is strength, you ask? Everything. From what you see and what you don't. My strength is abominable. It will never leave me as long as I do the same. It is my ultimate rule. My dividing power. It is an absolute that will never become undone. None can tell me otherwise. My strength will never have an equal. I will use it to defeat all opposition; no matter who or what it is. I acknowledge the arrogance in the statement. But let me ask you this, have I ever been beaten? Bring me someone who rivals my strength. Who will defeat me in combat. And maybe then, if they beat me, I concur. I will admit my defeat. I will let go of my spirit. My life. My Soul (readers are noted that James Potter has put heavy emphasis on this word; when questioned, he did not answer) Then, when I lay beaten. When my streak is ended. When my everything becomes nothing, then will I give you my conviction."
-James Potter; Excerpt from Strength of Potter; Unedited; noted version.
"Faster! You need to be faster. Your movement's swift. Your action hard and like lightning. Unseen to the naked eye!"
Harry was on his hand and knees, gasping for breathe with one hand on waist, which flared with mind numbing pain. His eyes were blurry and anytime he looked up, his vision swam until the colors mixed and he couldn't see straight.
Then, for a moment, he was lifted off the ground and was left unbound by gravity. Free falling with no opposition. It was as though the world around him decided he would no longer be with it, that he would ascend to a higher plane above that of mere mortals, where he was the air's master and was free to fly to his heart's desire. Then, he was sent back to the ground, the momentum of the attack no longer keeping him aloft. He was twisting in the air as his attacker's foot sent him from his kneeling position and onto his back, no doubt leaving a bruise.
"Where is your magic? That of which protects to you? You wasted it! Taking too many avoidable hits! You need to dodge them! Do not only think! React! Keep your mind and wits with you! Focusing on thoughts alone will lead to death! They will only slow you down. Look at you! You are defenseless! Easy prey for more attacks!"
Harry could only grit his teeth and groan as the man charged him. When his foot rose up and swiftly came down (in a normal situation, he wouldn't have done anything remotely as flashy), Harry rolled to his left and attempted to stand back up. The tip of the man's boots dug into his ribs faster than he could see it coming. The impact sent him flying once more and he unfortunately landed on shoulder. To his relief, it didn't break but from the feeling alone, he could tell that it was dislocated.
The man sighed and straightened his back. "And you're dead," he said, disappointed. He waved his arm in the air. "That's it! Call it, Remus."
Remus shuffled uncomfortably on his feet and pressed the button on the stopwatch. "... only a ten second increase."
James sighed and motioned for Harry's sister, Iris, to begin healing the wounded boy. The girl rushed over the second James allowed her to, wand and potion storage case in hand. As she sat him up and began diagnosing him, his father sighed again and moved to Remus.
"... it looks as though Harry has reached his limit," Remus muttered, pointing out the obvious.
James frowned. "No man, especially one Harry's age, has such a limit - not at this stage."
Remus gave James his own frown. "You are not like most men, James. Most men cannot take a hit from a troll and still manage to kill it. On his own."
James Potter, indeed was unlike any other man. One could call him a god in comparison, whether in magical or physical prowess. No other person would stand against him besides, just barely, Albus Dumbledore and Lord Voldemort. And only in magical standards.
"Father," Iris said, not even bothering to keep the resentment out of her voice. "Harry's shoulder is dislocated. It must be set before I can begin healing the rest of it."
James sighed before leveling a cool, emotionless stare at Harry. "This will be your punishment for your lack of progress," his voice was just as flat and everyone besides him flinched. There was no enjoyment in it, no malice or malevolence, but the fact he was doing it - the fact that this wasn't the first time and definitely not the last - built up a combination of fear, resentment and horrid feelings.
Harry didn't even complain, knowing that doing so would worsen his ... 'punishment'. Though he did not enjoy it, Harry knew that there was only one true teacher; experience.
James walked to Harry and rested upon his knees. He wrapped one hand around Harry's forearm and the other he placed on his shoulder. Harry breathed in as evenly as possible, but it was a futile attempt in the end. Without a single warning - no twitch or looking into his eye, no countdown or even a breathe - he popped Harry arm back in place.
And Harry's world was drowned out by pain.
"Okay then," James said as he walked back to the stands.
Harry shakily stood, panting and internally hissing in pain.
"Remus, your turn."
If Harry had not been in as much pain as he was, he'd cheer. His father's combat style was like lightning; hard hitting, fast and invisible. No man on earth could compete. His Uncle Remus' hand-to-hand style on the other hand, was much different and Harry personally liked it.
It was aptly named Feral Instincts.
Like its name implies, it was a style that relied completely on instincts and unpredictable attacks. Speed was still a major factor but Harry had several years of speed training. He was fine in that aspect. He also relied on his instincts more. His father's style replied on practiced attacks that were molded through years of constant practice; trained, organized and designed attacks that left could defeat most, if not all, enemies. A bit like martial arts, but more aimed to kill and permanently incapacitate.
But Harry did not have time; not years or months. Any day, Voldemort could attack. He needed to be prepared.
So, he relied more on Remus' style.
But that didn't mean he was a master at it nor was that good at it in general. Remus, on the other hand, was a master; his lycanthropy only helping him. So, Harry was still easily and swiftly defeated. He lasted longer than with his father. Much, much longer. But not by much.
"Strength is everything, Harry," James reminded his son as they walked around the perimeter of Potter Manor.
Harry shuffled on his feet as they stopped by the large, empty pond. He, never before, had questioned his father or any of his mottoes. But now; now, he had to get it off his chest. "Why say 'strength is everything' when you tell me - in our training - that speed is most important?"
The man looked barely fazed or surprised. Perhaps he expected the question or maybe his mask was just that good; Harry would never know. "I thought you would know that by now," he scolded none to softly.
Harry just shifted his feet again.
James sighed before staring at Harry, as always - and will always - as emotionless as every time before. "Strength is not the mere measurement of muscle mass nor the ability to push large, heavy entities with your limbs. Strength, as I've said before, is everything. Both in what makes it and what it stand for. What it is used for." The man paused and grasped a leaf out of the air. It was a true testament to both Harry's and James' abilities - the fact that Harry didn't even blink when he did it and that James had caught the leaf when it was behind his back. "Strength, in my most popular motto, is the physical abilities I and you possess. This word, in my phrase, is limitless in meaning and extends every day, every time. Boundless by both knowledge and might. Do not get me wrong, Harry. Strength, in this context, are the strengths you do and will possess. Speed, dexterity, agility, might, vigor, endurance, intellect, knowledge, wisdom, awareness, courage, control, charisma, and luck." The man chuckled, the first sign of amusement Harry had heard in many, many months and years. "Or, as your mother likes to put into: Agility, psyche, strength, intellect, vitality and dexterity. Why she orders it like that, I will never know." Oh … that makes more sense, both his motto and why he laughed. This was his mother they were talking about. If James Potter was the strongest man on earth, she was the oddest. "These attributes are what define strength in my motto. Do you understand now."
Harry just nodded.
"Good," James released the leaf - and, in what appeared to be the same motion, stomped it down with his foot. "Do you wish for me to explain my other motto?"
"No," Harry replied and shook his head. "But I am curious of a few more things."
"Oh," James said almost sarcastically. Almost. "This is a surprise. The first?"
"Your gloves," Harry answered.
James froze, just for a second - just in the blink of an eye - his eyes hardened and his fists clenched. Then, it was gone and would probably never appear again. "Ah, I did wonder when my children would ask. Though, I expected it to be one of your younger sisters."
Harry just nodded.
James pulled out his gloves. Completely pitch black bar two emeralds placed on the index and pink knuckles encircled by steel. Another thin but strong bar of steel connected the two attachments. But despite the material, despite its appearance, it glowed. Inexplicably so. One could see it in broad daylight and know that all sunlight was being absorbed into the material. At the same time, one could be out in the stars - much like Harry and his father - and could see the glow coming off it. It did not illuminate the area, hardly enough to be seen but still noticeable but the fact that is glowed was mystical enough. Harry knew that it was not magical, at least, not in the same kind of magic he knew. It was mystic, the only word that could describe it. James only brought it out when times were serious, when the tide of battle was not in his favor. And these single pair of gloves changed the tide in the same instance it took to draw it from his pocket. The power within it was immense. So much, Harry had watched it topple a dragon with a single strike. The gloves had only seen battle three times - to Harry's knowledge - and it each time lead to James' victory.
Harry wished to know. Desperate to learn the secret. Of what created it, what made its power. Harry was not naturally greedy or power hungry, but when you are so close to a weapon of ultimate power, one could not help but desire.
"These old things?" James asked with a single raised eyebrow. "There nothing really. A placebo. A mental switch. They are important, though. Hmm, perhaps another time."
Harry couldn't stop his jaw from dropping but managed to quickly recover.
"And the other? Other question?" James asked as he stuffed his gloves back into his pocket.
"Remnant." A pause. "Why are you sending me to Remnant?"
James stared into Harry's eyes, valuing his soul and his question with equal measure. "You know the answer. Voldemort."
The man turned and began walking away. "You should get some sleep. Tomorrow, you are leaving for Remnant. A warrior needs his rest if he wishes to win his battle." A bastardization of one of his mottoes: A fierce warrior needs his resolute to be absolute if he wishes to win his war.
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"And that was the last time I talked to my father, James Potter."
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"When your time comes. When you near your end, Jaune. Remember one thing. Your conviction must be absolute."
These were the words Jaune's grandfather, Alfred Arc, told him, once upon a time. In a far away place; in the old castle of Arc. Where the stones were slowly eroding and the enclosure - the protection - it once offered doing much the same. After he told him that, he had never seen the man again. To this day, he wondered what he meant.
'Conviction'? By its definition, was a personal - at times - declaration of jurisdiction. 'Absolute'? Definite, undoubted and unconditional.
But what, just exactly what, did his grandfather mean? Can he perhaps see Jaune's end? His final moments? Why say that to him? On his deathbed, of all times and places? Jaune sort of wished that he would never know.
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And as he grew older, he continued wished he would never find out.
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But then, came a time and place, where he did know. Where he did find out.
