HARRY POTTER AND THE UNFORGIVEN
A Sixth Year Harry Potter Fanfiction
BY
Jayiin Mistaya
"Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus."
...never tickle a sleeping dragon
COPYRIGHT DISCLAIMER: I do not own Harry Potter or anything related to Harry Potter. Those rights are held, exclusively, by JK Rowling, and any other entities, corporations, subsidiaries, or groups not named here possessing legal rights to the aforementioned books and/or trademark.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks to everyone who has been reading, even if you haven't reviewed, and especially to those people who have me on author alert or favorites.
More information on Harry Potter and the Unforgiven can be found at my website, which is linked in my Author Profile.
Feedback of any kind is always appreciated.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS: Thanks to Elusive Evan for making me continue to post this.
CHAPTER FIVE
Brand New Summer
Morning came at 4:30 am.
Dudley's alarm blared, and Harry sat up and stared into the darkness. Could the darkness around him eat everything he was feeling? Could he feed it the fear, the pain?
Maybe that's what Voldemort did. He fed the darkness with himself until it took the place of what he fed it.
His back and his face hurt horribly, but he ignored the pain. Summer with the Dursleys wouldn't kill him, even while Uncle Vernon had a free hand. Not having the blood protections from Voldemort just might kill him.
Vernon hadn't been this bad since before Hogwarts. He'd forgotten what it was like. How helpless he was. Harry was a bit surprised to realize he wasn't afraid; just resigned to what he knew was coming.
I guess I get to find out how much I can live through.
He dressed in silence, donning the oversize clothes as carefully as a knight donning armor. He picked up his wand; it was second nature to take it with him wherever he went. But what use would it be in the Muggle world?
CONSTANT VIGILANCE! Moody's voice barked in his head. Harry bowed his head in private shame, knowing he risked Uncle Vernon's wrath should the eleven-inch length of holly be found...but even worse should he need it.
He hid his wand by slicing a hole in one pocket with one of the paring knives they used in potions and spellotaping it to the inside of his trousers. It seemed a silly thing to do, but going into Little Whinging without it made him feel helpless.
By 4:40, he was in the kitchen, where he found instructions his aunt had left for him. He carefully followed the recipe for Dudley's breakfast protein shake as carefully as he would brewing a potion for an exam. Once the sludgy mixture was finished, Harry devoured a few pieces of bread and a glass of juice; there was no time for anything else.
At 4:55 am Dudley jogged down the stairs, clad in sweats, a headband holding his thin blond hair out of his eyes, vibrating the house. He took the shake from Harry and downed it in a few enthusiastic – and noisy – gulps.
Harry studied Dudley; his cousin was still round-faced and massive, but now there was muscle underlying the layers of fat. He no longer waddled, but strode; his shoulders seemed to hold the bulk of him up as if he were on strings.
The diet did him good, I guess.
Dudley slammed the glass on the counter and turned away from Harry, who quickly cleaned up. Uncle Vernon came into the kitchen, dressed for work.
"Hurry up, boy! Get to the car! I won't let you make Dudley late for his first day!"
Dudley was waiting eagerly by the car, a large duffel bag in one beefy hand.
Dudley and his uncle somehow both fit into the front seat. Harry swore he heard the car creak when they sat down.
"Well, Dudders, maybe by the end of summer you'll be driving your old dad to work, eh?"
Dudley laughed. "Hear that, Potter? Dad's gonna teach me to drive."
Harry just shrugged. Vernon looked back at him.
"Not like your kind even worry about driving like good, honest, normal folk, do you, boy?"
Harry knew better than to answer.
~ * ~
The gym was obviously expensive and exclusive. It was three stories of red brick, and had the words 'McAllister's' spelled out in yellow Celtic script on a green sign over steel-framed glass doors.
Uncle Vernon dropped them off outside with a final admonition to Harry. "Do as Dudley says, boy, or else!"
Or else.
Harry's back still stung and his face was still swollen from the last 'or else.'
No sooner had the car driven away that Dudley grabbed Harry's shoulder and spun him around. His cousin loomed over him, his small eyes searching Harry's.
"All right, Potter, here it is. We go in, and you walk away from me. Hear me? Walk away. You've got no part of this. This is mine, alone. You don't watch me. You don't say a word of this to anyone. Got it?"
Harry stared at his cousin in disbelief; it was perhaps the most civil his cousin had ever been to him. He saw a surprising desperation in Dudley's eyes; it ran deep enough that Harry actually felt some sympathy for him.
He nodded. "All right. I've got not part of this. I'll walk away. Just tell me when it's time to leave."
Dudley breathed a sigh of relief and shoved Harry. "Good, Potter, good."
Harry followed Dudley in and nearly ran into the man coming to greet his cousin. Taller than any Muggle Harry had ever seen and broader in the shoulder, the red-haired man was a giant. Shirtless and sweaty, massive muscles heaved with each breath. He had some neck, but it was corded with taut tendons. He looked down at Dudley with a sneer that reminded Harry of Snape.
"I hope you're not Dursley, you great tub. I'd hate to think I'll have to peel the fat off you before I make you a real fighter."
He walked in a circle around Dudley and snorted. "You are, aren't you? Hmph. Well, then, I've got my work cut out for me. Drop your bag and start running. Stop only when I tell you. You stop before that, you go home and don't come back, and every bleedin' pound your father paid me will stay here."
Dudley stared at the man in shock.
The red-haired giant growled and shoved Dudley with one meaty hand. "Go, boy! Before I change my mind about training you!"
Dudley ran.
The giant turned to Harry. "You must be the useless cousin I've got to baby-sit all summer. At least that florid swot Dursley knows what you're worth. He warned me about you, you little punk. St Brutus's, eh?"
Harry stared up at him calmly, refusing to show the fear that had settled in his stomach. He met the man's gaze evenly.
This man is no Lord Voldemort. I refuse to be cowed by anyone less.
He suddenly looked shrewder than Harry would have given him credit for. "Never heard of the place, myself, and I know every rat hole institute for useless wankers in the whole bleedin' country, but since Dursley paid good money for me to keep you here this summer, and a damn lot of it, I have to keep you here."
Harry met Duncan's eyes with a sudden sense of freedom. There was nothing this man could do to him that hadn't already been done. He had nothing to be afraid of – except Duncan confronting Vernon Dursley about the lie of St Brutus's.
What is Vernon going to do? Hit me? Harry almost laughed.
"You're a problem, kid." Duncan said flatly. "Either you're a punk thief and a worthless waste of carbon or," he gave Harry's clothes a distasteful look, "you're not."
He left unspoken the question Harry could almost read in his eyes: if Vernon Dursley could pay both for Dudley to be trained and Harry to be baby-sat, why was Harry dressed like a street kid?
"Either way, you can't be my problem. If I make you fatty's water boy and you're a punk, that'll make you my problem. Punk or not, if I let you sit out here and do nothing, you'll distract the dumpling over there from his training, you'll be my problem. I can't let you wander about, because punk or not, I have no idea if you can keep yourself out of trouble, making you my problem." He hooked his thumbs into his belt. "That leaves you just keeping out of the way. Best place for that is in the back with Gracie."
He pointed over his shoulder with a thumb to an unmarked door at the back of the large room.
Harry nodded, his sense of freedom evaporating.
"Punk or not, you're now her problem." He turned away from Harry without even waiting to see if the boy would head towards the door.
He probably – rightly! – thinks I'd be daft to argue him over it.
Keeping close to the walls, Harry walked towards the door, slightly surprised that he, Dudley, the red-haired giant and this Gracie person were the only people there. It was eerie.
The main floor of the gym was an open atrium lit by buzzing fluorescent lights; smaller workout rooms and equipment were on the other levels. One entire wall was what looked to be a difficult climbing wall; the back wall was entirely mirrors, except where the door to 'Gracie' and an office were. The center of the room was a boxing ring; to one side were exercise machines and to the other, punching bags. The track Dudley was huffing and puffing on ran around the room and seemed inclined in places.
Uncle Vernon paid that man money to make sure I stayed here? Vernon Dursley spent as little money on Harry as possible, and begrudged every penny he did spend.
He was serious about not wanting me around Aunt Petunia. Even though he told himself it shouldn't, the thought still stung. He'd always taken care of his aunt when she was sick! How could he taint the new baby? Surprisingly, he hadn't thought much about his unborn baby cousin, but he was suddenly struck with the fear the child might be magical.
Harry paused, his hand hovering over the doorknob. He had no idea what he was going to find in there – and he got the impression this room was where he would be spending the vast majority of his summer.
He wasn't looking forward to the summer; sitting in a room in the back of the hot gym, nothing to do but think. Wallow.
Am I a Gryffindor or not?
He turned the doorknob and walked in.
The floor was black linoleum; three walls were mirrors. The fourth was white pads with red targets set at different height intervals and a series of bars set at different heights mounted on the wall. The lights were incandescent, not fluorescent, and seemed dimmer than the ones in the atrium. There were small wooden tables pushed against the walls and four straight-back wooden chairs near the door.
He almost didn't see her at first even though she was standing in the middle of the room. She was tall and slender; waist-length steel-gray hair contrasted a face barely beginning to show the ravages of age.
Her eyes were closed and she was motionless. As far as he could tell, she didn't know he was there.
I assume this is Gracie.
He closed the door behind him just as she moved. Her bare feet slid across the black floor soundlessly as she flowed through what Harry thought was a dance. Each movement bled into the next; her motions were slow, as if she were caught in slow motion, but sinuous and controlled.
He hated interrupting or imposing on people, but he knew he would be in trouble if he went back into the main room, trouble that would get back to Uncle Vernon. He still hurt from the last time, so he stayed, and he watched.
Harry didn't know how long he watched her, but he was fascinated by how she moved. He recognized the expression on her face; he'd never seen it, but he knew his expression mirrored hers when he flew.
He briefly wondered if Ginny felt the same way he did when she flew.
Why can't I keep her out of my mind? He remembered his dream, her hand on his face and his chest. She had been so warm. He hadn't wanted to send her away or cause her to stop touching him.
I can't let Voldemort have her again. I can't.
He kept watching. When she finished, she became motionless again – it seemed abrupt, almost unnatural, as if she was never meant to be motionless.
She turned to face him, appraising him with one hand on her hip; her eyes were almost the same steel-gray as her hair, only brighter.
Finally, her face broke out in a grin. "So, why did you get tucked away in the back with the crazy old lady?"
There was something about her that reminded Harry of Professor Dumbledore. She seemed slightly off-kilter, a profound amusement with the entire world masking...something deeper, more powerful.
Harry shrugged. "My cousin is training here this summer. The redhead in charge told me to come back here and keep myself out of the way."
"Ahh," Gracie nodded. "And you're stuck here with your cousin because...?"
"Uncle Vernon said I had to come with Dudley – my cousin - and even paid money to keep me here."
She sighed and shrugged. "Looks like we're stuck with each other, then." She thrust out her hand. "Gracie McAllister."
He shook her hand.
"Harry Potter."
He almost expected a reaction, but she just nodded as if the two words were nothing more than a simple, common name.
"Right then, Harry. Here's what's what. My nephew Duncan out there has graciously allowed me to use this room for practice or whatever as long as I stay out of his way. Likewise, he stuck you back here to keep you out of his way, and I advise you to stay that way."
The unspoken question was: what was she supposed to do with him?
Harry shrugged, and looked down at his feet. "Don't mind me. I'm quiet and I don't eat much." He forced a smile. "I'll just bring a book or something tomorrow. I'm good at pretending I'm not here."
Harry was a little surprised he was already making weak jokes around her, but there was something about her that set him at ease, no matter how much he didn't want to be.
Gracie sighed and nodded again. "Right, then. You do that, kid, and I'll be damned grateful. Normally, I wouldn't mind, but today's not such a good day for me. At least for a bit, I'll need complete silence so I can clear my mind. After that, I'll try to be better company."
Harry shook his head. "Don't worry about it. You'll barely know I'm here."
Gracie gave a final, curt nod and turned back to...well, whatever it was she'd been doing when he had first come in.
Harry looked at the wooden chairs and opted for the floor instead. He sat cross-legged, leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes – he'd stared at her enough and didn't want her to feel like she had an audience.
Clear her mind. The words – the very idea – were like a knife in his gut, and a reminder of his dream the night before. Why had he dreamed of Ginny?
Why had he felt warm when she touched him? Why he hadn't he wanted her to move her hand...and why had it been so hard to send her away?
It didn't matter. He couldn't dream of her anymore, not like that. Voldemort could see into his mind, and it was far too dangerous for any of his friends to appear in his dreams, or even too often in his thoughts.
I should have tried harder to master Occlumency. I have to find a way to clear my mind and keep Voldemort outside my thoughts.
He couldn't afford to let Voldemort trick him again. Who would he lose next time? Ginny? Ron? Hermione?
I have to master Occlumency.
Now was as good a time as any to start. Harry focused on clearing his mind, trying to think of nothing, but as usual, he couldn't. The more he tried, the more his thoughts ran out of control, reminding him of all the things he had done or not done, of all the times he had failed.
In those few moments when his thoughts finally stilled, he felt himself starting to fall asleep and had to wrench himself awake and start the process over again.
Then, just for a brief second, he cleared his mind and his scar exploded with pain.
Flicker.
He was walking across the front yard of a burning house. Ashes crunched under his feet and acrid smoke burned his eyes, nose and mouth. A man in a black robe stood in front of the flames, stretching out a pale, mottled hand, holding a slender wand of bent and twisted wood.
Voldemort. It was something in the way he stood or something in the way he held his wand; some nameless sense told him the magic that had been cast had come from Voldemort. Maybe it was their connection, or maybe it was the shared magic of their wands.
"Harry, so nice of you to join me." Voldemort turned and mockingly bowed to the teenage wizard. "Come to see my handiwork, have you?"
Harry stared in silent horror at what he saw; the stench of burnt flesh made his skin crawl and his stomach twist.
"No." He felt his anger rise, the all-consuming anger that had driven him to demolish Albus Dumbledore's office. "No!"
He didn't realize he had been running at Voldemort until he was stopped by a negligent wave of the Dark Lord's hand.
He turned, swinging his wand around to point at Harry. "You know something I don't know." His smirk was devoid of humor. "Legilimens!"
His scar burned and hurt like one of Uncle Vernon's prized drills was boring into his skull, through it and out the other side; he wanted to scream, but his voice was choked by the taste of blood in his mouth, its cloying warmth clogging his throat.
Flicker.
~ * ~
Gracie had just started to fall into a rhythm and when she heard the kid in the corner moan in apparent pain. She stopped in mid-motion and spun on her heel, silently praying that he hadn't hurt himself somehow – or even worse, had pulled some stupid-fool stunt to get her attention.
But he was sitting cross-legged, leaning against the wall, and seemed to be asleep. She would have called his outburst a nightmare, except the strange, lightning-shaped scar on his forehead was red and inflamed.
What in the bloody...?
She'd barely noticed the scar before; the lightning bolt shape was unusual, but Gracie had seen a lot of unusual scars. Hell, one of her longtime underground contacts - a bum with long silver hair and a long beard - had once claimed to have a map of the London Underground above his left knee.
He had dark circles etched under his eyes, bruises on his face and was painfully thin to the point his clothes swallowed him whole.
Which doesn't make any sense, seeing how his family can afford to pay Duncan's rates and enough extra that Duncan braved making me a de facto babysitter.
Gracie sighed, trying to dismiss sudden feelings of guilt. He hadn't meant to, but the boy was already starting to get under her skin.
Not your problem, Gracie-girl. She scolded herself. But whatever kind of fit he's having is.
She knelt down and took a closer look at the scar, touching it gingerly with her fingertips, surprised when it was hot to the touch, as if it was infected or the kid was running a fever.
A fever? In a flash, the most unlikely thought crossed her mind. Could the kid be having some kind of flashback? A few of the veterans on the force had been susceptible to flashbacks, and one of the symptoms of a deep and prolonged one was a fever.
She walked over to her sports bag, pulled out a bottle of water, and splashed some on his face.
He came out of it with a strangled cry, one hand going to the scar on his head.
"You okay, kid?"
He didn't answer her; he dove for the trashcan and unceremoniously vomited what little he'd eaten.
After a minute, he looked up and sank back against the wall, trembling. "I'll be okay. I just need a minute."
Gracie sat down next to him and handed him the water. "Flashbacks are hell, kid."
Harry nodded gingerly, taking a sip of water.
"I'm gonna be a nosy old bitch and pry. You seeing anyone about those?"
Harry shook his head. "Not this summer. At school...there are people who can help."
She looked into his green eyes and was surprised to see the same kind of haunted look she'd seen in her own eyes just before she'd decided to retire.
"I'm no shrink, kid, but I can teach you a bit of meditation. Just something to clear your head, help you focus."
Something in his eyes flashed, and he suddenly had the look of a hungry man handed the ticket to a free banquet.
"To clear my mind?"
"Yeah, kid. To clear your mind." She motioned for him to drink. "You need some fluids or you'll end up bent over that can again."
She heard him mutter something as he took a drink, but she couldn't quite make it out.
"What was that?"
Harry shook his head and shrank back. "Sorry. I didn't mean to say it out loud...I'll just go over here and be quiet now. I didn't mean to be a bother."
She shook her head with a grunt of frustration. This was not going well at all. "Harry, I'd like to think I didn't scare you witless the first day you're stuck with me, and flashbacks aren't your fault. Now what was it you said?"
Harry shook his head and rubbed his scar. "It'll just sound stupid to you."
Gracie grinned in a way that reminded Harry of Fred and George. "So?"
He spoke slowly and clearly. "I said 'it's worth more to me than my life to learn to clear my mind.'"
Gracie leaned back, startled at the desperation in his voice. "Okay. You're right. That didn't make any sense, but I'm not sure it has to."
Melodramatic, but telling. Whatever gave him the flashbacks...I don't think it's over yet. She looked at him a little harder this time, thinking fast.
He wants to learn to clear his mind so badly, then?
The solution was simple, and if he went for it, maybe her conscience would calm down a bit.
"Right then, kid. I'll make you a deal. I'm trying to spend this summer training, getting my head on straight. But I have a debt to pay, a debt that's not money. You help me pay that debt and I'll teach you to clear your mind and maybe a bit more."
Harry looked at her, uncertain. He didn't know her; he didn't know anything about her or what she was offering to teach him.
But if she can teach me to clear my mind...wouldn't that be worth the risk??
"What do you mean, 'and more'?" His voice was hesitant, but there was a note of curiosity there.
She grinned. "I'll teach you what my teacher taught me, kid; martial arts. I'll teach you to not only clear your mind, but how to integrate physical and mental discipline in ways that, if you stay in practice after we part ways, will help you control those flashbacks. At least, give you a damn good place to start from."
She stood and reached down for her water bottle. Harry handed it up to her, and their hands brushed, just briefly, and he heard phoenix song; just a brief whisper of melody that made the pain in his scar ease as if Fawkes were sitting on his shoulder singing.
He could feel his wand vibrate in sync with the music.
"Can I think for a minute? My head is still a little fuzzy."
Gracie shrugged. "Sure, kid. Take all the time you need. Offer is open until I say it's not."
Harry leaned back against the wall again. What was that? Why did I hear Fawkes singing like that?
He reached his hand back into his pocket and clasped his wand, still warm from the burst of phoenix song; his hand tingled from the magic.
Can she teach me what Snape couldn't? She's a Muggle...maybe Muggle techniques don't work for wizards...but Snape said Occlumency wasn't really magic.
She stripped off her wraparound jacket – the kind he saw all martial artists wearing, revealing a black tank top; between her shoulder blades he caught a glimpse of a colored tattoo; faded reds and golds blended with black lines…a phoenix.
A phoenix. That was too much, even for him. Coincidence and phoenix song weren't things that went together, not in a Muggle gym.
Who is she?
He pushed himself to his feet.
Can I afford not to try?
"All right." Harry thrust his hand towards her. He wasn't sure he could, or should, trust her. He wasn't sure he was making the right decision, but he had to try something. "You teach me, I'll help you. Deal."
She took his hand, feeling the strange material of the glove covering it; it was the smoothest, supplest leather she'd ever felt. "You agreed without knowing what the debt is." She meant to be admonishing, but the words came out as a quiet statement.
Harry nodded. "If this works, it's worth a lot to me. So, when do we start?"
No need to tell her that when summer ended he would disappear.
"Now," Gracie answered firmly. Take off your shoes, socks, and shirt."
"My shirt?" His eyebrows drew together in a quizzical expression that stole the haunted look from his eyes, replacing it with such startling innocence that Gracie nearly burst out laughing.
"Yeah, your shirt, kid. You're about to get hot and sweaty and that oversize hand-me-down won't fare well. That, and you need every bit of freedom of motion you can get."
In remarkable silence, the boy disrobed, revealing a pale torso and chest. Dark bruises and welts marred his back and sides. Obviously fresh, the bruises looked layered over other, older injuries.
I hate being right, Gracie thought.
A familiar sick feeling welled up in her stomach and she swallowed it. It was no longer her place to be involved. She was just teaching him. Nothing more.
At her gesture, he walked to the middle of the room, his hands resting easily at his sides.
Gracie paced around him, examining everything about him – his stance, his breathing, with a critical eye. She frowned.
"What's that in your pants?"
Harry mumbled, "Nothing."
"Kid, lying is hardly admirable, and you're not very good at it."
The look on his face made her think he'd just been struck. Had he never been called on a lie before? Every kid lied – it was an adult's responsibility to spot the lie and call it. Good training for the white lies that greased the squeaky wheels of life.
He reached into his pocket and drew out his wand. She stared at it, but said nothing – she had no more idea what a wand was than Harry did a kukri.
Strange thing to carry around. Still, there was something familiar about it, as if she'd seen something like it before, but she couldn't remember where.
He set it on one of the chairs and went back to stand in the middle of the room.
"The glove too, kid."
He paused, his muscles shifting ever so slightly as something in him galvanized from submissive to defiant. "No."
Gracie sighed. This was why she hated teaching. "Yes. Or you sit there and read all summer."
He thought about it; she could see the turmoil in his eyes. "Then I'll sit and read."
Gracie rocked back on her heels again. "If learning to clear your thoughts is so important, why give it up over a glove?" She let a breath pass, then added, "Be honest with me. If you're bluntly honest with me, then I'll be bluntly honest with you."
Harry looked at her, trying to figure out what he was supposed to say. Trust. She wants trust. I want to give it to her. But why do I want to trust her so easily?
Harry closed his eyes, and through an effort will, spoke. "Because you would see something that would make you ask questions I don't want to answer."
She paused, and ran her fingertips over a set of fresh bruises on his back. He flinched at her touch – not at the pain her touch caused, but from her casual brush skin on skin.
His flinch begged questions Gracie could easily guess the answers to. Gracie walked back around to face him.
"Something tells me I should ask." Her voice was a gentle whisper as she dropped her hand. "But I won't. You can keep the glove. I'll give you that much if you'll give me something."
She paused, waiting for him to answer her. He nodded once.
"I need your solemn promise you will accept that I know what I am teaching you; ask questions, but don't argue. Everything will be explained, but not always at first. Do that, and practice. Practice every spare moment you have; every morning and every night. It's the only way you'll ever reach whatever goal that's driving you."
Harry nodded slowly. "I can do that, but I reserve the right to refuse to do something I don't feel comfortable with."
"I wouldn't have it any other way, kid." She smiled at him in what she hoped was a reassuring way. "Let's get started then, shall we?"
"What should I do?"
Gracie pointed at a spot on the other side of the gym. "Walk across the room for me. Just walk."
That absurdly simple request started the ten most grueling hours of Harry Potter's life.
"Take a breath, kid." He had sucked in air, and she had shaken her head – then the flat of her hand slapped his stomach, sending the air rushing out of him. "Breathe right. From your diaphragm. Not from your shoulders!"
It took nearly ten minutes before he started breathing correctly. Even then, she had to keep reminding him.
"Take a single step forward and stop." She eyed the way he stood, adjusting his shoulders, his feet, his legs – everything she could, until he stood correctly.
Five hours of breathing, of standing in the stances she showed him, of raising and lowering his arms slowly with each breath. Counting one-one thousand two-one thousand three-one thousand...to ten-one thousand with each breath, with each adjustment of his body…of transitioning from one stance to another.
Harry's muscles ached and his body was as sore as he had ever been after Quidditch, and true to her word, he was drenched in sweat. His back felt like it was on fire and the bruises from his uncle ached abominably.
The movements were easy to grasp and easy to remember. He'd been memorizing wand movements and stances for five years. Breathing was harder, and Gracie had no sympathy for him.
"Nothing I teach you will matter if you can't learn how to breathe properly, kid. Breathing is the key to clearing your mind, to centering yourself. It is the center of your focus, is the first step to mastering anything else."
Once she was satisfied that he knew how important remembering to breathe correctly was, she taught him to stretch…or, as Harry thought, to contort.
Laughing softly, she smiled in sympathy at his soundless grimaces – thus far, aside from the occasional grunt if he lost his balance, he had not spoken a single word unless she asked him a question. It was obvious he was in pain.
"Don't worry, kid. It'll get easier, I promise. Just practice tonight before you go to bed and tomorrow before you eat breakfast."
Three hours of stretching, of bending his body into new and unusual ways – and he still had no idea how he was supposed to clear his mind.
I have to trust her, he told himself. Besides, what have I got to lose?
Then she taught him how to move. Tai'chi, as she called the series of motions and breaths, was the first martial art she'd ever learned, so it was the first she would teach him.
As the gym was shutting down for the day, Dudley stumbled into the back room to collect Harry and blinked dumbly at the sight of his cousin, drenched in sweat, moving with excruciating slowness through the first ten steps of a tai'chi form.
After watching in silence for a long minute, Dudley grinned, throwing Harry a towel.
"Clean up, Potter. Dad'll be here any minute, and I'd hate for him to think you'd been working hard. It'd ruin his day."
It was Harry's turn to blink dumbly, and after a moment, he grinned back.
End Chapter
Revised 8-11-9
