Boxing Day, Harry's 2nd Year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
The old Armoury Tower was tall, jutting out of the donjon of the upper bailey of the fortress once known as the Hrothweardseld, cold and draughty as there were open flues which had one fed air and taken smoke from the long-cold furnaces. On the middle floor was what could have been a ballroom, for it was round, with arched pillars around the outside of a dance floor, and many high windows letting in the watery dawn light that did little more than accentuate the shadows.
Harry advanced in, hand resting on the pommel of his sword – the name of which he had yet to decide, but he was currently considering calling it 'Cuts Shit' – ready to draw it if necessary. Suddenly, he swept it from its sheathe as one of the dusty suits of armour came to life, hefting a mighty greatsword at him. His arm vibrated and ached as he awkwardly blocked an incoming swing, then attempted to drive it at the armpit of the suit of armour, the only place he could think to penetrate in the hope of reaching whoever stood inside the plate.
The suit smacked his thrust aside with the back of his offhand. Backing away rapidly, Harry desperately swung at the eyeslit of the closed visor on his opponent's helmet, not truly in the hope of killing them, but simply to open the distance from that cleaver which would mow his head from his shoulders with contemptible ease. Yet, once again, the greatsword flashed out like a mammoth razor. Feeling the air displaced by the swing, Harry retreated around a pillar, nearly running into an empty, derelict suit of armour. He froze, and with a moment's inspiration, waited.
Clanks of plate joints and the jingle of chainmail announced the advance of the suit of armour. However, it wasn't the only one in the room. Harry toppled the one he was hiding behind, bringing it crashing down on his opponent. For a moment he felt triumph, preparing to advance and chose a spot to ram home his blade, but then the greatsword rang like a sharp bell, send the falling suit of armour flying sideways, leaving his opponent to advance relentlessly, the thunder of metal-shod boots on the stone floor like the bells announcing his doom.
Catching the surging greatsword with the edge of his own, Harry was puzzled to observe a chunk of steel being hewed from his opponent's blade, leaving no scratch or nick on the parrying edge of his sword. Then he saw that runes graven in the forging of the ancient sword had begun to glow, and with every blow more damage was dealt. This gave him an idea.
Deciding that defending and retreating wasn't working, Harry chose another course of action. Picking up the fallen helmet, he hurled it at the head of his opponent's suit of armour, and using that distraction, charged. Ducking under the greatsword as it attempted to bisect him, he lunged. Then suddenly two giant metal fists were gripping his sword, and even as sparks of torn metal fell from those gauntlets, the blade was wrested from his grip. Not bothering to reverse its hold on it, the suit of armour drove the pommel into Harry's stomach, then swung out, the crossguard hooking around his feet and sending him tumbling to the floor, jarring every bone in his body and leaving him with an urge to throw up.
"Tonight we will try again and see if you have learned anything." the low, flat tones of the Bloody Baron came from the suit of armour. "I believe that as today is not a school day, I will keep you here throughout the day. We will learn not how to fight, but how to step, but first I believe a little exercise will prepare you for the coming hours."
As, finally, the sun broke over the horizon, Harry was dismissed to break his fast, and directed to the kitchens for the first time. It was his first time encountering the Lesser Imps known as House Elves in their preferred environment. With both ease and enthusiasm, they plied him with a fine breakfast. Toast, fried after being soaked in egg, then bacon, pork sausages, venison sausages, the best part of a steak, potato cakes, bubble and squeak, more and more arrived in front of him until he was comfortably full.
With an hour's rest after eating, he returned to the tower, resuming the lessons that would last until well after nightfall – save for more breaks to fill his stomach.
With every day that followed, Harry worked, ached and sweated. It was, perhaps, fortunate that he made a point of putting no more effort into his schoolwork than was necessary to further his aims, as he had no energy for anything more. Come night, he slept deeply and easily, ate heavily and worked even harder. Every bruise he wore as a badge of honour, for the effort they signified, and as, with every week that passed, he gained one or two fewer such injuries.
After Easter, Harry began to fight with an eight-ounce lead weight attached to each wrist, forcing him to develop more muscle in his wrists, elbows and shoulders. Driving himself ever harder, he began to add a little of his own magecraft to gain himself an advantage in combat, but it was only toward the end of the year that Harry noticed something. As he ate heavily and worked himself sore, steadily his thin, scrawny figure, which he'd gained through the mercies of his relatives, began to change, growing a little stronger, his endurance increasing and his movements a little smoother.
This was for the better as he would soon need every advantage.