—of the Copybook Headings
words by H.P. Birdman (unless noted)
"Not only intellectuals, however, but society at large seemed to Kipling to have fallen into habit of wishful thinking and to have forgotten the age-old, unfashionable wisdom enunciated by the Gods of the Copybook Headings." - Andrew Rutherford, "Introduction" in War Stories and Poems by Rudyard Kipling
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Chapter Two: Gunga Din, Pt. 1
—
"So the basic point of this is you ask me questions and I tell you all about how Harry won the war?"
It was a carefully worded question that let me feel the steel of the trap that it was trying to force me into. As my assistant refocused the light to catch the vibrant red hair of the woman across from me I gave a forced laugh.
"When you put it like that Ms. Weasley, yes," I responded, opening my palms up towards her as if I was giving up. We both knew that I wasn't.
"Everyone knows how the Earl Hogsmeade won the war," I started as she took a measured sip from the thermos that she had brought with her, "But no one really knows, as you understand. I seek to show the story underneath the story."
"I am sure that is all you seek," it was said in such a way that a lesser reporter would have just agreed and been forced at the beck and call of one of England's greatest Quidditch players.
"Obviously I search the fame and fortune that being the person who can tell this story will provide," I stated instead, happy to set the woman who had once scored from halfway across the pitch onto her back foot, "I make no bones about that. That is why you're here first of all, and Romilda Vane isn't."
We both scoffed, my point driven home. I decided to put the final hammer on top of it.
"Anybody can say what they saw from the sidelines, that is why everyone 'knows' what happened," I clapped my hands together, "A select few people were front and center, actually dodging the bludgers. That, Ms. Weasley, is why you're here."
My director of photography signaled from behind me that he had been recording. Perfect.
"So please state your name, current occupation, and which side of the conflict that you were on," I rolled the easy preface off of my tongue.
"Ginny Weasley, currently basking in the glow of my Quidditch career," she replied with the false smile that every professional athlete acquired after years of interviews, "I was of course of Harry's side of the conflict."
With a person like this you have to go in for the kill from the start.
"You at one point had a crush of Sir Potter, did you not?" people would probably expect a blush, a stammered answer, and a denial. They obviously were not paying attention.
"I still do in fact!" she replied with a laugh, signaling that my efforts to disarm here had paid off, "How could you not?"
"When did you first get to know him?" I further asked, "Was it when he spent summer after summer in the company of your brothers?"
"Heavens no," she replied, her eyes searching for years past, "I dare say that he barely even acknowledged I was there unless I was dipping my arm into the butter."
She paused, years of memories dancing in the eyes which had mesmerized many a boy's bedroom before stating, "It would have to be in my fourth year at Hogwarts. He was in charge of the Defence Club, and that was really the first time we existed in the same social circle."
"That would be the famous Dumbledore's Army, correct?" I asked, clarifying for editing purposes. She nodded, taking another sip of her drink.
"A lot of the people we have interviewed have said that Lord Hogsmeade changed almost overnight after that year," I stated, as her eyes engaged mine, "Do you have any insight to that, seeing that you had just recently before not even moved in the same social circle as he?"
"You have to understand, when I was growing up I was told all these tales about Harry," she replied, only looking slightly embarrassed, "When I first met Harry it took a while to marry the tales all of us children were told about the conquering hero with the meek boy who only wanted to be friends with my brother and Hermione."
She took a breath, scrunching her nose up as she chose her next words.
"When Harry went home for the summer after Sirius died I expected fire when he came back," her fingertips started dancing with each other, "I was not expecting what came back instead."
"What came back?" I asked.
"Sex on legs," she said with a smirk.
— Greet the Day —
Harry was not sure what the worst way in being woken up was, but having a bucket of ice water dumped on top of him would probably qualify for the discussion throughout the length of his life. Not the least which because of how cold it was.
"Up Potter! Greet the day!" came the booming voice of his minder for the summer, as another bucket deluged him, "Let's move it! Put your exercise clothes on! Hurry up, hurry up!"
He barely missed a third bucket as the mountain of a man laughed. He grabbed his glasses from where he had put them the night before and noticed a brand new set of training clothes had been laid out for him. They were now slightly wet, but so was everything else in this room.
He changed with an astonishing lack of modesty as he felt the wind blow in through the barely curtained windows that only helped to keep the humidity at bay slightly. He went to walk out of the room before the booming voice of Ethan chided him into running.
To where, he did not know.
"Alright now, follow me!" the bear of a man said once they had reached the beach that the bungalow he had been introduced to the night before was on. They set up on a moderately paced run up the beach.
"Where are we going?" Harry asked, having difficulty keeping his balance or pace in the sand.
"We have no food in the house, there is a market with our breakfast in it two miles down the beach," Ethan replied, moving with a nimbleness in the sand, "The base of all strength is endurance. You're a wizard, I have a gimp knee. Between the two of us we will earn our kippers this morning!"
"Two miles?" Harry responded, his lungs and legs already burning.
"And not an inch too far!" came the laughing response as Harry felt muscles in his legs activating and stretching that he had not even imagined inhabiting his body before. He had never actually ran more than a mile sustained at a time beforehand, and now this crazy muggle wanted him to do two? In the sand? He was sure that he was about to meet his death at not the end of a wand but the loose grains of the island beach when the former soldier slowed to a stop, waiting for Harry to catch up to him.
What he had hoped was for a small respite turned into what was termed an "active rest," with Ethan leading him in a round of press ups, sit ups, and then repeated until he was sure his arms and his sides would cave. It was then back on his feet for more jogging.
His thoughts trailed back to the night before, when they had first arrived on the island after a pretty silent plane ride in which Harry had busied himself in reading about the three brothers in the book that Professor Dumbledore had sent to him.
They had arrived at the bungalow house under the cover of darkness, and it had beckoned for them as if it had been prepared for their arrival. Which, if Harry considered, was probably true just based off of the breeding that Ethan Lethbridge-Stewart exuded. The man himself remained quite the mystery to Harry, and while he knew that Moody (and thus Professor Dumbledore) had to have trusted him he wasn't sure what to make of the man. He obviously had the military feel about him, but he wasn't sure how a muggle would be able to prepare him to defeat Voldemort of all people.
"This room over here is going to be yours," Ethan had said, gesturing towards a room that was situated looking out at the beach, "I'd tell you more but as you insist on not talking much at the moment I have no idea what you'd want to know. I suggest you get some sleep, because tomorrow you will be answering my questions whether you like it or not."
The threat hung over the air for a second as Harry turned to regard the man, whom Harry noticed was only a few inches taller than him in reality.
"If you want to send post back to your friends, leave it in the kitchen on the counter, Wallace will make sure it gets back to England," he said with a softening of his features, but only slightly, "Drink this before you go to sleep for the night. You'll thank me later."
He handed Harry a bottled water that Harry wasn't sure where it had came from, before turning around and leaving Harry to himself and the solitude of the room. He had fallen asleep shortly afterwards on the bed provided to the sound of waves crashing. It was only after thinking back now that he realized that not a single troubling dream had occurred the night before.
He was shocked out of his memories (or really his brain's attempt at blocking out the pain coursing through his body at the exercise he was currently being forced into) when he was suddenly body tackled by his solid trainer.
"Bad show Potter!" came his booming voice as Ethan wrestled him down into the sand, before mounting him on his back and putting him into a choke hold that left him searching desperately for a method out. Something to stop the feeling of helplessness as Ethan easily demonstrated how simple it was to kill him.
Right as Harry thought that he actually was about to die and had stopped struggling, Ethan let him free. He lay in the sand for a moment, collecting his breath. The world was spinning on top of him, and there was a pain in his head, lungs, legs, and heart that he had never felt before.
It was helplessness. He really, truly was completely helpless for the first time that he could remember.
"Get up Potter," came the rough voice, a more hardened voice this time, "Every time you let your mind wander away from the mission you can count on me to put it back on course for you."
Harry struggled to get up for a second before Ethan reached down and easily lifted him up. He dusted Harry off for a quick moment, before taking off on a jog again and motioning for Harry to follow.
"The only reason that the ground exists, Harry," Ethan said as Harry struggled to keep up, "Is so that we can learn to pick ourselves up off of it."
The torture continued for Harry as the sun rose next to them, gradually casting a longer shadow. Every so often Ethan would make Harry stop, and then do press ups and sit ups again before popping back up and continuing their trek in the sand. If Ethan felt that Harry was starting to lag behind too much, he would be tackled again and put in another exhausting choke hold while being scolded for "giving up too easily."
Eventually, they made their way to the promised market. Harry noticed that Mr. Wallace was waiting for the pair at a table holding plenty of fruits, and breads. He wasn't sure what the greatest meal he had ever ate before this one, but he knew that none had ever tasted as well. Nor had any previous meals been one that he had earned so thoroughly in his mind.
He would, however, not ever be able to tell exactly what he ate as he shoved it into his mouth without a thought as his body craved whatever could be given it to make up for the massive pit that had formed.
After eating to almost bursting Harry noticed that Ethan was eating at a much more leisurely pace while actually reading a newspaper. He was also absently rubbing his knee which for the first time Harry noticed was heavily scarred. He was about to ask about it when Ethan laid the newspaper down on the table, put his knee brace back on, and beckoned for Harry to follow him.
They walked back down the beach, now bathed in sunlight. The first mile was in silence, just the sound of waves around them. It was calming.
"We're going to start every morning like this until you can learn to fight me off," Ethan eventually broke the silence.
"I don't think I'm ever going to be able to do that," Harry replied, incredulous. This man was a trained killer and he expected him to be able to fight him off? Even after seeing all the wonder of the magical world he knew that was insanity. He reiterated, "Ever."
Ethan laughed, clapping Harry on the back.
"You doubt yourself too much Potter," the man said, stretching his purpose built arms above his head, "That is no way for a gentleman to act."
"I don't know what Professor Moody told you, but I'm not much of a gentleman," Harry replied, shaking his head in amusement.
"I'm not either, but appearances are 80% of life," was the laughing response, before attempting to tackle Harry again. This time Harry quickly stepped out of the way having seen the move coming. Ethan congratulated him before correcting him on his posture.
And so it continued all the way back to the beach house.
— A short distance, fast —
A week later Harry was just starting to stir from sleep when he feels a presence over him.
Without thinking he launched out of bed and over the piles of books and notes that now littered the floor right as the water drenched where he had been moments ago. He grabbed his glasses and trainers and bolted out the front door of the bungalow as Ethan's laughter followed him.
He was able to outrun the former military man until they reached the sand where his still inexperienced feet betrayed him with their instability, and he was tackled in short order.
In comparison to where he was the week before instead of thrashing about blindly and then simply accepting his fate he was able to resist with some of the basic methods that the bear that was currently mauling him had been imparting onto him.
He still lost the fight in about twenty seconds.
He then launched into his now daily regimen of press ups, sit ups, and other calisthenics before setting out at a pace he could sustain down the beach.
"A sprint will get you a short distance fast," Ethan had told him the second morning after stopping him from running as fast as he could, as if away from something, "But you'll never be able to sprint a long distance."
Every five minutes they still stop for more press ups and sit-ups, but now it is routine. His entire body was burning, but after a week he has grown used to the aches and the pains. He knows better what his actual limit is, and what is just his mind forcing him to stop due to the unknown. He still slows down every so often (leading to Ethan jumping on him, but again he can hold his own for longer than before) because he has only been at this for a week, he knows that he will not become the special forces soldier that Ethan was in the short time he is here.
He was still pondering exactly what he is to be gaining from this time away other than a tan and the ability to run for miles, but as of the moment he has to trust in whatever wisdom and guidance that Professor Dumbledore had in signing off on this.
They made it to the cafe they have been to every morning to find Wallace waiting for them.
"That was the fastest time this week, gentlemen," the attache commented as he handed Ethan a newspaper, and Harry a glass of water.
"I told you that with the right application you would start seeing results Harry," Ethan booms with a laugh as Harry was still catching his breath. He just waved the larger man off, stretching his legs for a minute before sitting down to the customary breakfast of various fruits, breads. and meats. Ethan had implored him that the proper diet was responsible for the tone of the day, and Harry was starting to appreciate it.
In fact, while he was still searching for the purpose of him being down here - his mind was right, thank you very much, he just had to deal with more than any teenager ever should have to - he did appreciate what it was allowing him to do. After a full week away from the nightmares, and physically exhausting his body daily he was actually in a decent mood.
Of course, thinking about why he was in a bad mood in the first place only served the effort of launching him back into a pissy one. He tried to clamp down on it as he strove for the carbohydrates that he knew his body would be aching for during a sparring session later but he knew it was showing on his face. While Mr. Wallace was too nice to make note of it, only giving him a glass of juice, he knew that Ethan noticed it. The man noticed everything.
He didn't comment on it though, preferring to let Harry work his way through his own thoughts. It was annoying in a way that Harry wasn't sure why. He hated when people tried to get him to 'talk about what was bothering him.' He would have thought that letting him stew in his own thoughts would have been preferable, but dammit he wanted to be able to voice what was bothering him.
Even if he couldn't put a finger on what it was.
With breakfast finished they started to walk back down to the bungalow to go into the lessons that Ethan had been putting Harry through on classical literature, close quarter fighting, and meditating. The walk back was beautiful as always, and while he was in a bad mood he had learned to appreciate the mental solitude and beauty of where he was at.
The little things that before he was going too fast through life to notice really started to stand out in these moments.
"I remember once sitting on a runway, waiting to get into a plane and jump into enemy territory," Ethan's voice came into focus above the haze that was Harry's cloudy mind, "One of our patrols had been lost, and we needed to do a search and rescue. They kept on finding reasons for not sending us, and to this day I'm still pretty tossed about it."
Harry stared at Ethan, seeing him look out into the water a thousand miles away in memory.
"What happened?" he asked, expecting to be told how everything eventually folded its way up into a bow. Wasn't that the point to these types of stories? Hey Harry, bad things happen but if you work through them eventually everything turns out alright!
"Three of my friends died because our superiors hesitated about pulling the trigger," Ethan bluntly stated, a mask shimmering over his face as Harry barely avoided tripping, "A couple of weeks later, after all was said and their bodies recovered, we all got official apologies."
"They said they should have let us go, they were just too worried about losing more of us."
"How long did it take you to forgive them," Harry replied with a bitterness lacing his voice, sensing this story was just a way to enforce into his mind just how sorry Professor Dumbledore was and to continue trusting his overall judgement. He was getting tired of those lines, of course he still trusted the old man.
"When I do I'll let you know," Ethan muttered, picking up a rock and hauling it into the water with force before turning away and continuing to walk, "Are you coming, or are you going to stare at the water all day?"
Later that day brought Harry laying on his back in frustration wearing protective gear as Ethan ran him through his paces in kickboxing. The man had commented that it was good for his mind, and body to participate in such a structured yet violent setting.
"It's where boys learn how to be men," he had explained while tossing him protective headgear the first day. It certainly had helped his reflexes quite quickly as he did not enjoy being hit in the head repeatedly.
The week of regular (intense) exercise and proper eating had put his body in the best shape that it had ever been in. He knew that Ethan was holding back on him as the man had years and mountains of experience over him. Today though was reminding him of Professor Dumbledore and that he has been treated like a child in a man's war.
"Are you going to lay there all day?" Ethan's booming voice echoed through private room in the gym. The constant flow of doing things because they were good for him, or improve him, or just do this Harry finally snapped the frayed thread in his head that he hadn't realized had been holding his emotions in check.
"I want you to stop treating me like a child and attack me," Harry ground out as he got to one knee, and then pushed himself into the fighting position that Ethan had taught him the first day.
"You're not ready," the man stated, dropping his hands and bluntly accessing Harry. This was not what he had wanted to hear.
"I'm sick and tired of being told I'm not ready!" he lunged at the much stronger man, his arms throwing inexperienced jabs and hooks that were easily parried. A response was not enjoined.
"Do you want to know what happens when you charge into battle head on without being ready?" Ethan asked, easily swatting Harry's hands away. Harry thought back to the Department of Mysteries as he saw his strongest blows batted away as not even a minor annoyance.
"I think I do," he gasped out, his body already weakening under the strain of attack.
"No, you don't," came the stone reply. He slipped past one of Harry's ineffectual throwing of his hands in Ethan's general direction and exploded in a flurry of concentrated violence. He kicked Harry so hard in the side of his leg that it buckled. Before he could even gasp out in pain, a vicious uppercut landed on his chin sending him into blissful oblivion.
The next thing that Harry knew he was laying on the ground with Mr. Wallace applying a wet towel to his now throbbing head. He felt his head being cradled in Mr. Wallace's hands and spied Ethan standing a few feet away staring out the window.
"It is necessary to be a fox to avoid the snares, and a lion to scare away the wolves," he quoted, before turning towards Harry and looking down on him, "I seem to remember this being in a book I gave to you to read."
He started walking out of the room, stopping long enough to shout over his shoulder, "Take the rest of the day off, we're going to have a chat before dinner. Wallace make sure he gets back."
Harry shortly after found himself in his room, considering his earlier rashness. It was becoming a recurring story over the past few years of his life: get the minimum amount of training and then lash out, shortly followed by getting violently reminded of his level on the totem pole. It was doubly frustrating for him because he was sick of people treating him like a meek child, and then immediately proving everyone right.
People wanted him to be this leader, to be this figurehead and he was still just 15. He picked up the copy of Les Misérables that Ethan had given him to read and tried to push these thoughts out of his head and concentrate on whatever twisted lesson he was supposed to learn from this book.
Before he knew it, Mr. Wallace was knocking on his door.
"Lord Lethbridge-Stewart is ready to speak with you, Mr. Potter," the majordomo explained in his clipped tones. Harry thanked the man and followed him to Ethan's room where the man was getting ready in evening dress which had a neat row of decorations on jacket.
"Come in Harry," he said, doing and undoing the bow tie. Harry walked it, tapping his hands against his thighs were a slight phantom pain had emerged to remind him of his stupidity from earlier in the day. Ethan waved a hand at an empty chair that was to the side of him.
"I told you before Harry that your story would be told when it needs to be told," Ethan said, finally getting frustrated with the tie and tossing it onto his dresser and instead focusing on his cufflinks, "That's fine, but every time you let your anger get the best of you the same result that happened today will happen."
Harry made a noise so that he could agree but quieted immediately after a sharp look.
"That is not a metaphor. You will get beaten down, and other people will get hurt."
Walking over and standing next to Harry he received a tumbler from Mr. Wallace who had just walked in. Wallace sighed and grabbed the bow tie and started putting it on Ethan for him.
"Now, we're going to a dinner tonight," Ethan continued, much more brightly, "My father's friends are going to be there and it will be dreadfully boring. You also have a mission tonight: get out of your comfort zone."
He took a draw of his drink as Mr. Wallace finished tying the black cloth around his neck.
"You are going to be dressed as a gentleman, and most importantly, someone that's supposed to be there," Ethan waved his hand at Mr. Wallace in thanks, "Go get ready, Wallace will help you. Look in the mirror before you put your clothes on Harry. You're rich, good looking, and I will beat the living shit out of you if you embarrass me."
Harry laughed a nervous laugh at the obvious dismissal as he followed Mr. Wallace out of the room. This was going to be a disaster.
—
"I'm assuming that you and the Earl of Hogsmeade became," I paused for effect, I would be editing my voice out of this part, "Involved for a bit then?"
"Oh not in the slightest!" she laughed, waving the question off of her.
"Really?" I responded, genuinely surprised, "The best friends sister, all the possible alone time, two gorgeous humans?"
She snorted at my leading questions, "Maybe in a different life time we could have gotten together, but when he came back he was Harry Fucking Potter, and I was his best friend's little sister. I stood no chance really."
She paused, "That's not to say that we weren't friends, but when he came back he more became an older brother to me than anything. He helped me become who I am today."
"How so?" I asked, leaning forward. She paused, considering letting out what she probably considered the state secrets. She drummed her fingers on her thigh for a moment before committing.
"After my first year, and no I won't go into detail on it as much of it's well known, I started to have self destructive tendencies. I started really acting out at times. Nobody really noticed, they just put it down to little Ginny Weasley being such a firebrand!"
She sighed.
"Harry noticed," she stated, emphatically, "When he left for the summer he was in pain, if he wanted to admit it or not. When he came back he had learned how to channel that pain and when he saw me? He knew I was screaming out in pain but didn't know how to say it."
"He saved my life really," she remarked, looking down, a pink tinge colouring her cheeks, "And gave me the confidence to not be defined by my pain."
—
"The uniform 'e wore
Was nothin' much before,
An' rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind,
For a piece o' twisty rag
An' a goatskin water-bag
Was all the field-equipment 'e could find.
When the sweatin' troop-train lay
In a sidin' through the day,
Where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl,
We shouted 'Harry By!'
Till our throats were bricky-dry,
Then we wopped 'im 'cause 'e couldn't serve us all."
"Gunga Din"
Rudyard Kipling