Disclaimer: Not mine :P
16 November 1998.
"Eat this. It's a Muscle Regeneration Agent, and no, it isn't a Wheeze. Aurors use it up to five times a week when they're training."
From his lap, she looked up at him doubtfully and fingered something that looked suspiciously like a lemon drop and reminded her of the Headmaster with a sharp prick beneath her ribs.
"Can you explain the theory behind it?"
Harry looked a bit flustered.
"Err, well, you know how when you're exercising, you tear your muscles and when they heal, they're stronger, right?"
Something like impatience flickered across her face, and he could see that she itched to correct him and further embellish the explanation and physiology of muscle-building. He continued before she had a chance to speak.
"Well, the Regeneration Agent, or RA, more or less lets you pick when you want to hurt, like at night. Regular pain potions disrupt the process of muscle building, and pretty much make the time you spent training a physical waste. They tried Muggle medicine for aches and pains, but no Muggle medication was prepared with wizards in mind and it just didn't work very well, and the ones that did help were too addictive and made people drink tons of water and do crazy things.
"There's a catch, though. Delaying the process forces it to work faster. It'll hurt more, but you can hurt at night so you can train during the day. And, the healing is cumulative which means so is the pain, so don't try to put it off too long. Most people that try to delay the pain during the week to recover during the weekend end up in a coma ."
Hermione snorted, pushing away the mental image of Gregory Goyle addicted to Percocet. She eyed the Regeneration Agent with mild trepidation and then Hermione Granger made an impulsive decision. She popped it into her mouth and almost instantly a cool tingle began on her tongue, tickled her esophagus, and spread through her body bringing instantaneous relief and extraordinary flexibility. She vowed to never, ever take muscular cooperation for granted and she tested her range of movement by pointing her toe and lifting her arms over her head.
"Give me two minutes." She pushed back from the table and took the thirty torturous stairs two at a time and blatantly rejoiced with a silly twirl when she reached the top without her legs protesting. She threw off her robe for loose pants and a t-shirt, and exchanged her boots for trainers, and she bolted down the stairs again. Mrs. Black sneered as Hermione skidded past, and she muttered of filth and coarse manners because ladies did not run, ever, but especially in a house, but what more could she expect from a mudblood. Hermione ignored her, and turned her eyes to Harry expectantly.
"Train me."
She gave him a brave sort of smile, the kind that lifted her lips and crinkled the skin around eyes that didn't sparkle. He didn't notice, or maybe he chose not to, and he provided her two bands with which to secure her wand to her forearm so she'd have it when she ran. He stretched, and she followed his lead. Words weren't needed when they left the yard, and Harry set a brisk pace along a carefully planned, protected, enchanted trail.
Three minutes later her chest hurt and her lungs burned. Her breathing was ragged, and she wanted to quit. He increased the pace.
Five minutes later her mouth was torn between dry and drooling and her throat ached, and she wanted to kill him. He increased the pace.
Seven minutes later her legs were trembling and her arms felt like lead, dragging her, slowing her down and for the second day in a row, she couldn't breathe, and instead of Harry's early demise, she wished for her own. Whether it was divine intervention or an act of mercy, Harry slowed to a quick walk after fifteen minutes. She stopped all together with her hands on her knees and tried to force oxygen into her lungs, and she nearly fell when he grabbed her arm and hauled her forward.
"Put your hands on your head." The bastard wasn't even winded. Had she any breath left at all, she would have yelled, snapped, or even spoken exactly what she thought of him, of running, and of the Order of the Phoenix. But she was gasping for air and she couldn't even whisper her protest. She was mutinous, and she very seriously considered the ramifications of murdering the Wizarding world's Chosen One with a curse to his back.
He seemed to know because he turned a quick circle and hollered "DOWN," and he dove. Preoccupied with his assassination, she wasn't as quick as she was, and he threw a Stupefy that should have missed because she should have already dropped. She hadn't, though, and she was frozen with a new surge of violence in her eyes. He released her and she tumbled, landing awkwardly and scraping the palms of her hands.
"What in the hell was that for, Harry?" Her voice was little more than a whisper but it was far from kind.
"You are training for combat. If your commander gives and order, you act. You don't think, you don't hesitate, and you don't look around to find out why. You act. You do it. Death Eaters don't fight with Stupefy, Hermione." Like her, Harry didn't raise his voice, but he was livid and the words fell like ice from his tongue. He was condescending and cruel, and for a moment she looked as though he had slapped her, and then she drew her wand but Harry had already cast Rictusempra and she fumbled with a shield charm. It held – barely – and she shouted Tarantallegra. He didn't bother to block it. Instead, he dove and Furnunculus shot from his wand. It struck her in the shoulder and she howled, something fierce and inhuman and the dynamics of their duel changed when she pointed her wand and cast Relashio, and then EverteStatum in quick succession. His eyes widened and he shouted PROTEGO and the spell bounced off his shield and rebounded back to her. She was unprepared and it struck her in the chest and she flew like a ragdoll until Levicorpus caught her ankle with a flash of white light, and he stalled her wild flight and lowered her more gently back to the ground.
"Come on. We're going for a run." And he set off again though her arms and legs were still tangled and she hadn't risen from the grass. She shook from adrenaline and from the boils in her shoulder. She shook from rage and shock and exhaustion and something far beyond the scope of dislike. She prodded her shoulder and muttered Episkey and rose unsteadily to her feet.
One foot in front of the other. Bend arms. Breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth. Foot, foot, foot, foot, breathe.
She caught up to him and he increased his pace, and when he yelled DOWN out of nowhere, she threw her hands in front of her to brace for impact and started to bend her knees to fall. The curse missed her because Harry was shaken too, and because of it, his aim was half an inch off. It was not because of her reaction, and Harry twisted and broke into an all-out run that she couldn't have kept pace with even if she'd been a runner for all of her life. She hadn't had breakfast and only started her tea when Harry had led them from the house, and there was bile in her stomach and acid rising in her throat, and she choked and blinked and focused on the blurred image of a black-haired boy – no, man – and she put one foot in front of the other and struggled to follow him.
From a distance, she heard DOWN, and she was only too happy to fall to the earth and cling to a small shoot of grass like it would save her life. Above her head, the red of Harry's Stupefy struck a tree where her hips had been a fraction of a second earlier. It was a small victory, and she would have smiled if she could, but all she could do was lay still in the grass for three magical seconds of what passed for paradise before Harry rolled to his feet.
This time he was kinder, and he offered her his hand. Hers was slick with sweat and dirt, and their grasp slipped the first time. He took both hands then and hauled her to her feet. For the last half-mile back to Grimmauld Place, they walked slowly, and gradually the roar in her ears subsided and she could hear the easy rhythm of her breath.
A/N: In case you couldn't tell, I am a runner by necessity and not necessarily choice. I don't enjoy pain, and I really don't enjoy not being able to breathe. However, I have German Shepherds. We have a deal: we run, and in exchange, they don't eat my house. I have friends training for marathons, and I hate the world after two miles. I don't understand :D
Please leave a review - and thank you to those of you who have given a piece of your time to me, and to Fireshy.
Love always,
Threnody.