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.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: Thanks to MuggleMomma for her extensive beta of this chapter and her continued, unwavering support. Without her, this story might have been abandoned by now.


CHAPTER SIX

No Failure

Dinner was awkward and uncomfortable. Harry and Dudley were both too tired to make much conversation. They ate slowly, forcing each bite down mechanically. Harry was sure it was probably one of the best meals he had ever eaten with the Dursleys, but he barely tasted it. Meanwhile, Vernon glared at Harry, as if making sure his nephew was suitably miserable. He spared only an occasional glance at Petunia, who just stared queasily at her plate. Harry's aunt didn't attempt conversation; normally, she was unable to contain herself from informing them all of the latest neighborhood gossip, usually finding creative ways to blame Harry for their neighbors many foibles. Instead, she seemed to be afraid to open her mouth and eat.

Just like the previous two summers, the whole family was rigidly following Dudley's diet, now modified by Duncan McAllister. Lean protein, high-energy carbs and careful portion control. Everything was strictly rationed, measured and doled out so Dudley ate the right amounts of the right foods, but it was a substantial improvement over the grapefruit diet. Veronica was cooking instead of Aunt Petunia, and although she made sure Harry got less than half what Dudley got, it was more food than he was used to getting from his family.

Veronica was more than willing to fill the silence with inane chatter, apparently oblivious to the tension. She obviously felt Dudley needed her expert advice on his responsibilities as both a Dursley male and a future professional athlete.

"I'm glad you're training so hard, Dudley." She shook her fork in the air, somehow managing not to dislodge even a morsel of food. "When you've made a career of this, it's not just your fans who will be judging you, but the bookmakers and the promoters and the agents – some of whom mingle in the highest circles, Dudley, the highest. You have to be seen as a strong and honorable man. Say little, but be true to your word no matter what."

Dudley just nodded. Petunia looked incensed at the idea that her ickle Diddykins was anything but honorable, but refrained from arguing because every time she opened her mouth, she looked decidedly greener.

Veronica pointed her fork at Harry accusingly, her wide, beady eyes piercing him with her sternest scowl.

McGonagall does it better, Harry thought.

"And you, boy, it's good to see you finally learning your place. Your cousin is going to need your support. He'll need you to take care of him and make sure everyone else working for him does the same. He's your blood, boy, your blood. No one will take care of him like you will, nobody. That's your duty as his cousin and his personal trainer just as much as Dudley's is to represent himself well. He must always be able to trust you. He'll have no one else to confide in, no one."

Harry stopped chewing for a second. I'm Dudley's personal trainer and closest confidant? He spared a glance at Dudley and was surprised when his cousin only shrugged.

Vernon made a strangled choking sound as he inhaled what he'd been noisily chewing and started coughing before he could rail against the very idea of it.

Veronica didn't seem to notice. She merely launched into an extended explanation of a professional athlete's role in modern British society; to Harry's surprise, some of it sounded like it might even be true.

At least being his trainer will give me an excuse to practice what Gracie's showing me. I can't very well help Dudley if I can't keep up with him, now can I?

That thought was enough to let Harry ignore the increasingly hostile stares from Vernon and Petunia, both of whom seemed torn between reveling in the idea their son might be a sports celebrity and yelling at Harry.

When dinner was over, Petunia went to lie down and while Vernon and Veronica went to the sitting room for a spot of brandy and the evening news. Stiff, sore and as tired as he could ever remember being, Harry dragged himself out of his chair and cleaned the kitchen.

Dudley waited for Harry to finish, watching him work from the kitchen door. As Harry turned to leave after he was done, Dudley stepped in front of him.

"Outside, Potter. Think today is over yet?"

Feeling as if a stone had settled in his stomach, Harry followed his cousin outside.

Dudley is learning to fight better; he'll need a punching bag. I only hope there will be enough left of me to practice for Gracie tonight.

Harry knew he had to practice, no matter what. He hadn't lied to her when he'd told her it was worth more than his life to learn to clear his mind, to master Occlumency like he should have done the past year. If he had, Sirius would be alive. His friends wouldn't have been hurt, and maybe he wouldn't be spending his summer isolated from the magical world.

If I had learned Occlumency, would Dumbledore have told me the prophecy?

The question chilled him as he followed Dudley into the darkening evening.

I won't fail them again.

In the distance, he heard the soft hoot of an owl and felt his throat constrict with a sharp pang of guilt and loneliness. He stared up at the clear sky, watching, straining his eyes for a glimpse of snow-white wings, almost eager for the painful nip Hedwig would administer for sending her away when she came back with letters from his friends.

There was nothing.

Good, he told himself harshly. They're in more danger with me than without me. They'll be safe, and I'll be as safe as I ever am. And soon, they'll be safer...it's time I started correcting my mistakes.

He wouldn't fail again. It was his now his mantra. He would not let someone else die because he failed.

The cool, sticky-slick practice pads slapped his face.

"Think fast, Potter. Stop stargazing and come help me practice."

Dudley sneered at him, but Harry met Dudley's eyes calmly and the sneer faded, replaced by the same lost desperation he had seen that morning.

Leaning down, Harry picked up the pair of red pads and slipped them over his hands. Mutely, he listened to Dudley instruct him on how to hold them, how to respond to him.

Still as a statue, he held the pads out for Dudley to strike. For almost twenty minutes, Dudley pounded away at Harry's hands, the two-inch-thick foam pads providing little protection against his cousin's sheer physical power. Dudley ducked and wove, dancing in and out on the balls of his toes, showing surprising grace and control for his size. Harry took the punishment without flinching, but as always, Dudley wanted more.

"Damn you, Potter, don't just stand there like you're struck dumb! Make me work for it, or I'll hit you so fucking hard you won't wake up 'till you've missed the train back to freaksville! Got it?"

Harry stepped back, glaring at his cousin. "You want me to make you work for it, Dudders?"

"Make me work for it, Potter!" Dudley growled savagely. "I'm only aiming for your hands...make it hard for me. Duck and weave, come in and out at me! I know you're a ruddy fast little bugger when you want to be, so bloody well do it!" He seemed as frustrated by his own inability to find the words to convince his cousin to really help him train as he was with Harry for not knowing how to help. "This is your bloody chance to really get me, Potter! You don't want to waste that, do you?"

Harry smiled a cold smile. "Why don't you get me a pair of gloves and a mouthpiece, then?"

I'll be damned if I'm going to let you beat me into a pulp without a chance to give as good as I get. Harry had spent the first eleven years of his life fighting Dudley, and the past five years fighting for his life. He wasn't going to be afraid anymore.

To Harry's surprise, Dudley grinned fiercely. "Think you can handle me, Potter? Think you can keep me from knocking those glasses off your face?"

The silent challenge in Dudley's eyes was unmistakable. Think you can face me on my terms?

He met Dudley's eyes. He had to look up at his cousin. Beads of sweat stood out on Dudley's skin. His face was flushed with anger and exertion, and his eyes danced with the overwhelming desire to practice the violence he sought to master.

Harry was very aware of every bruise, every ache, every pain, and could only guess how well he might fare. But this was first time Dudley had ever even pretended to give him a chance to get back some of his.

Harry reached into his trousers and pulled out his wand. Slowly, deliberately, he set it on the patio table.

- 0 -

Dark robes draped over his slender frame.

The heavy material was soft and cool to the touch, but warmth suffused him as his slender fingers deftly worked the intricate fastenings as his father had shown him.

His father.

Draco's refined, aristocratic features twisted into a disdainful sneer. His father had been so proud, so confident in his power, and it had amounted to nothing when faced with his classmates. Mere students had defeated the Dark Lord and his most powerful followers.

It was Potter, not Dumbledore. He'd heard the whispers. The other Death Eaters, hiding like cowards in Malfoy Manor, wanted to blame Albus Dumbledore for the defeat at the Department of Mysteries, but Draco knew better. He wasn't blind. Potter always won. He'd beaten the Dark Lord not once, but five times. Why did the rest of the Death Eaters think they were powerful enough to face Potter and his friends?

Dumbledore hadn't trained the six students who had gone to the Ministry. Potter had. Dumbledore hadn't prevented the Dark Lord's servants from learning the Prophecy. Potter had.

Draco had been dealing with Potter for five years. He'd been sabotaging him, turning people against him, weakening him every step of the way for five years. He hadn't worked alone, of course. He'd just followed in the footsteps of another.

He'd heard the whispers calling Severus Snape a traitor, but he knew better. He'd been there. Snape only bowed to Dumbledore when given no other choice. Every student at Hogwarts who counted themselves an enemy of the Dark Lord's suffered under him. Every student who knew who was the true master of the Wizarding world prospered. He knew how Snape ran Slytherin house. He'd felt the sting of his wand in the dormitories, known the lash of his tongue when he'd failed.

He knew what Severus Snape thought of Harry Potter. He knew Severus Snape was a Slytherin. A true Slytherin would never side with someone he hated, not unless there was something in it for him.

He knew there was nothing in it for Severus Snape if he sided with Harry Potter.

He finished tying the last knot and slipped his wand up his sleeve. They're all idiots. Blind fools. They ignored the tenets every Slytherin schoolchild knew. They ignored the facts presented to them.

Potter. It was always about Potter, Albus Dumbledore's obvious favorite. Potter never lost because he was brave enough to do what was needed. He was unfailingly loyal to his friends and his mentor. He was smart enough to find someone smart enough to out-smart the teachers. He was cunning enough and ambitious enough to constantly come out ahead.

Draco Malfoy was no longer going to allow Harry Potter to upstage him. He would no longer be a laughingstock. He would show everyone why Slytherin house danced to his tune. He would show them bravery and loyalty and intelligence and cunning. He would show them the fruits of ambition.

Tonight was the night. Tonight, the Dark Lord inducted new followers. His mother had refused to let him attend. His aunt had ignored his pleas. Peter Pettigrew had laughed at him. Severus Snape had refused to speak to him.

None of them could stop him. It had been the easiest thing in the world to have a house elf bring him a set of robes, and it had taken only moments to figure out how to sneak into the ceremony.

It had taken him even less time to figure out what they were all doing wrong, why they all failed and why they would continue to fail…and why he would not fail.

His sneer turned into a smile as he pulled the hood over his head and slipped from his bedroom into the dark hallway. He followed the sounds of murmurs and shuffling footsteps until he stood at the back of a line waiting in the drawing room. No one questioned his presence, because none of them knew how many initiates there were supposed to be, or how many had decided to come.

He waited in silence. Silence was easy for him, especially in his own home. He'd been taught from an early age never to speak unless spoken to; any words spoken out of turn had unfailingly earned punishment or scolding.

Silence didn't come easily to the others waiting with him. They whispered to each other, to themselves, muttering under their breath or taunting their fellows. He hid his smirk in the shadow of his hood. He knew false bravado when he heard it. He was past master in the art of masks and false faces.

He had chosen the mask he would wear for this night carefully. He would not dare fake humility or bravado or servitude. He wouldn't snivel or grovel or beg. He wouldn't dare to demand or expect. He wouldn't ask, either. This was a simple thing, merely taking the place he had been groomed for.

He didn't think. He let his mind go blank, leaving only sensation and perception. It was a trick he'd learned as a child. He knew some people would call it a defense mechanism, but to him it was just another tool.

He didn't know how much time passed. He only knew that when he became aware again, his feet and legs ached lightly. He felt the change in the air, the sharp anticipation as an unknown countdown approached zero.

The drawing room doors opened, seemingly on their own. He felt the queue surge forward and then jam to a halt as the person at the head hesitated.

Never hesitate. He felt contempt for whoever had. He already knew they would fail.

More slowly this time, they all moved forward. The drawing room, a place that had once been very familiar to him, now seemed strange and alien as it became a gateway from the mundane world he'd grown up in to the real world he wanted to become a part of. Shadows played on furniture and decoration; the hiss of gas lamps was accompanied by a cacophony of breathing and shuffling feet as they descended the hidden stair one by one.

Like a river or stream, natural momentum carried them down into the secret chamber. He'd never been down, but he'd always known it was there. He knew it had many purposes, but tonight, it served its grandest purpose of all. Instead of dungeons or an unseen trophy room, the chamber had become a throne room. Far longer than it was wide, the room had walls of pale wood and plush emerald carpet. Torches burned low with faint red light. There was no furniture and no decoration…nothing without purpose.

On either side of the supplicants, lining the walls, they stood, silent and watching. Each of them was robed in black, masked in white, wands held at their sides.

They were Lord Voldemort's Death Eaters. They were the deadly instruments of his will, those servants most dedicated to the rightness of his cause. They were the most skilled, most accomplished dark witches and wizards of their age, saving only their master. They were the pinnacle of what the supplicants hoped to become.

The Death Eaters stood in an imposing gauntlet flanking the supplicants, two parallel lines against each wall, faceless white masks staring in at the supplicants, ending just before his throne. He was tall and elegant, sinuous and sleek, his pale skin contrasting with the robes flowing around him. He was as inhuman as he was frightening.

For the first time, he felt fear fluttering in his guts as he entered the presence of the Dark Lord. His certainty melted away under the regard of luminescent red eyes; his mask cracked and threatened to crumble at the sense of power hanging in the air around him like a cloak.

Powerful beyond hope or reason.

Gooseflesh puckered his skin as the momentum of the line carried him forward.

The Dark Lord raised his wand.

Clumsily, awkwardly, they all fell to the ground, to one knee, their heads bowed to the carpet.

He didn't need many words. All of them knew why they were there. Each of them had made the choice, and each of them thought they knew what it entailed.

Each of them could taste the promise of power; they all knew the siren seduction of the forbidden. Forbidden lusts for pain or even less savory things. Forbidden desires and taboo ambitions, unspoken and unheard, each more unacceptable and twisted as the one before.

They all knew that only through the Dark Lord would they be able to feed the hungers they would never dare utter aloud. The Dark Lord spoke, his voice dry, like crumbling scales.

"Stand before me, that I may judge your worthiness."

For a long moment, nothing happened. Again, someone hesitated.

The Dark Lord did not hesitate. His wand flicked negligently and there was a flash of sick, yellow light. The supplicant jerked, gasped and choked as he tried to breathe. He curled around himself; a ragged scream tore from his throat. It cut through the silence, echoing off the walls, ringing off the metal fixtures, caressing the wood panels. His scream seemed like it would never end.

It burrowed into the mind like a worm, leaving an echo of pain behind.

Finally, the Dark Lord lowered his wand. "Pathetic. You are not worthy."

He gestured with one skeletal hand. The shaking, weeping supplicant slid along the floor, flung aside as the useless waste he was.

The next supplicant stood and lowered his hood.

The Dark Lord's wand never wavered. "Speak your name and be judged."

The supplicant swallowed hard. "Marcus Flint, my lord."

The Dark Lord stared into his eyes and Flint trembled, his face set in a grimace of pain and struggle as he endured the presence of the Dark Lord in his mind.

"You are worthy."

Flint sagged in relief even as one of the Death Eaters led him off to the side, forcing him to kneel once again.

The third supplicant stood.

- 0 -

Warily circling each other, Harry and Dudley gasped for breath, their hair drenched with sweat. Harry sported even more bruises than he had started with and the beginnings of what would be a remarkable black eye. Both had thrown their shirts aside long ago and were eyeing the other with new respect.

Blindingly fast, Harry's Seeker reflexes had saved him so far, but Dudley hadn't pulled any punches. The few he had landed were devastating proof of just how good a boxer Dudley already was. Harry's ribs ached with each breath and his jaw was swollen.

My kidneys may never forgive me.

Hitting back was useless; the few blows Harry had landed had done nothing but make Dudley laugh. Instead, the smaller boy had focused on blocking and dodging his cousin. His arms were deeply bruised and aching from deflecting Dudley's powerful blows, but Harry had managed to avoid any seriously damaging punches.

Dudley had to learn both to move faster and to anticipate where Harry would dodge next. The smaller boy ducked and wove and stepped out of the way with remarkable fluidity and fluency, all without leaving Dudley's reach.

In spite of their mutual dislike, they were both smiling. Every few breaths, one of them would taunt the other; after awhile, it became almost playful. Neither boy said anything, but they were both starting to have fun.

It ended when Uncle Vernon stepped outside, and saw the wand lying on his patio table.

"Boy! Get inside, now! Just what were you thinking leaving...that...thing...out where just anyone could see it?" Harry stood there for a moment, eyeing Dudley sidelong and gasping for breath, not sure his cousin wouldn't belt him from behind. Dudley, however, only stood there, waiting.

"Move, boy!" Vernon's face darkened to a dangerous shade of puce, his arm twitching.

Harry dashed to the table, frantically trying to strip off the boxing gloves.

Vernon's casual backhand caught him with a glove in his mouth, his almost-free hand reaching for his wand.

Harry hit the ground, his head swimming. He vaguely noticed that his glasses had been knocked off his face and the side of his head hurt.

Vernon leaned down, his small eyes boring into Harry. "When I tell you to move, boy, you move."

Harry spat out his mouthpiece. "Yes, Uncle Vernon."

The large man kicked him in the ribs Dudley had bruised. "Good. Now move, boy."

Scrambling, Harry picked up his wand and staggered into the house.

"Cupboard, boy. Now."

Dudley followed them in and trudged up the stairs to shower, his face an unreadable mask.

- 0 -

One by one, they stood. One by one, they were found worthy or were discarded, reduced to sobbing, shivering husks.

Only one had died, his mind burnt out by the Dark Lord's mere presence within it. It had been messy; blood coming from his eyes, nose and ears, dribbling from his lips as he'd chewed his own tongue.

The smell of blood and sweat was thick in the air. Sweat ran down Draco's face, arms, back and legs, making his clothes stick to his skin.

Now it was his turn. He'd been waiting hours, kneeling. He wasn't afraid. He already knew pain. He already knew the humiliation of having his mind exposed. He'd never been allowed secrets or privacy, not even in his own mind.

He didn't fear being judged. He'd always been judged. He knew there were only two possible outcomes. Only two ways he would allow this to end.

I can't let it end any other way. I will not be nothing anymore. I will not be a failure anymore. I will become greater than what I am.

The Dark Lord's wand pointed at him.

He stood.

"Speak your name and be judged."

Pale hands pushed back the dark hood. "Draco Malfoy."

He ruthlessly suppressed his smile as murmurs raced across the room. He refused to meet his mother's accusing, fearful eyes. He refused to acknowledge his aunt's gleeful cackle.

Trapped between the eyes of Severus Snape and Lord Voldemort, he refused to tremble.

There were only two possibilities. He refused to accept failure.

He waited for the Dark Lord to enter his mind, to weigh, measure and judge him.

The Dark Lord lowered his wand. "You are of no use to me."

Draco's mind went blank. This wasn't what was supposed to happen! He wasn't even being given a chance!

He was arrogant, but he was no fool. Not anymore. Not after what Potter and his friends had done to him. Not after his father's failure.

He knew he should bow, turn and leave, taking his disgrace with him. Every set of eyes in the room was on him, waiting for him to do just that. He wouldn't dare argue with the Dark Lord. That would mean a terrible and painful death.

Two possibilities. I will not accept failure. I will not be humiliated any longer.

The Dark Lord was waiting. His mother was waiting. His aunt was waiting. His teacher was waiting.

Everyone was waiting for him to walk away, was waiting for his shame and his degradation to be complete. Waiting for him to become the boy his father always accused him of being.

What use was he? He was the son of a failure. He wasn't as smart as a mudblood. He'd been defeated by the blood traitors who ran with Potter. Had he ever managed to succeed at anything more than petty harassment?

So what's the fucking point? The thought tasted bitter in his mind. If he walked away now, would he ever be able to stand here again, or would his failure haunt him for the rest of his life?

I will not accept failure.

What did it matter? This moment was the natural culmination of everything he was supposed to become, and he was being cast aside without so much as a thought.

A joke.

He would be a joke. Death Eater or Dumbledore's sycophant, they would all be laughing at him. He had accomplished nothing.

I will not accept failure.

Draco looked up at the Dark Lord. Gray eyes met red. He squared his shoulders, standing tall, as a Malfoy should. As a pureblood should.

"Then kill me."

The Dark Lord's wand twitched. His voice twisted with amusement and anger at this impudent child who dared remain standing before him. "You wish to die?"

Draco kept his eyes on the Dark Lord's. "Yes. If I cannot serve you, then what is the point? Without that, I am nothing. No one. I failed tonight. How could I ever expect to stand before you again, knowing I have already failed?"

The Dark Lord laughed softly, his cackle like dry leather crackling. "You wish so badly to serve me, boy?"

Draco knelt again, bowing his head. "Yes, my lord."

Voldemort walked up to Draco, his gliding footsteps pulling his flowing robes around him. His hand rose quickly, his wand whistling through the air as he effortlessly flowed into perfect casting posture, wand held ready.

Draco smiled. I will not accept failure.

There had only been two possibilities. Success or death. He had failed, but he would not accept it. He would accept death.

Whatever pain came would be transitory. Fleeting. He would die and no longer have to live up to who he was supposed to be, no longer have to live with the knowledge he could never become what he was meant to become. He would not longer look in the mirror and find himself wanting next to Harry bloody Potter.

The Dark Lord slowly lowered his wand, resting the tip on the top of Draco's head.

"You would rather die than face failure before me?"

The answer was simple. There was only one answer. "Yes, my lord."

"Do you believe I would grant you the mercy of death, boy?"

"If I am of no use to you, my lord, what purpose does my life serve?" What is there for me, if not this?

The Dark Lord's wand slowly traced down Draco's face until it rested under his chin. The wood was warm and smooth, but left a train of cold along his skin.

The Dark Lord used the tip of his wand to raise Draco's head until their eyes met. It was a simple thing for the Dark Lord to enter Draco's mind, slipping past the rudimentary Occlumency the boy had somehow mastered and deep into this thoughts.

The Dark Lord was curiously gentle, his touch light, cutting away Draco's identity, memories and self with a scalpel of thought, a razor-thin edge of his unfathomable will slicing away at him.

Draco did not tremble at the pain. He didn't acknowledge the blood running from his eyes or the knife in his brain. He didn't whimper or scream or struggle. His breathing was ragged, but his body was still.

His thoughts rolled through his mind, trapped in a never-ending loop. I will not accept failure. I will be more than what I am. I will not remain nothing or I shall become nothing.

An eternity later, the Dark Lord stepped back, lowering his wand. "You may be worthy, yet, young Malfoy."

Draco stared at him, pale skin marred by dark red tears of blood. Drop by drop, falling to stain the carpet beneath him.

"You will not take the Mark. You will not be a Death Eater. But you will still serve me, Draco Malfoy."

Draco let out a slow, rattling breath, climbing back to his feet. I did not fail! There is still a chance.

"Your will, my lord."

- 0 -

Harry sat down on the cot, enduring his cramping muscles, the itching and odor of his drying sweat. He would wait; even Uncle Vernon eventually went to bed. Until then, he would practice. He had promised, and no matter what else he failed at, he would do his best to keep his word.

He had failed Sirius. He wouldn't fail Gracie.

He sat cross-legged on the cot, forcing his body into the position Gracie had taught him. Closing his eyes, he welcomed the darkness.

He breathed, in through his nose and out through his mouth, using his diaphragm, not his shoulders...he made his breathing slow, forced out any thoughts except the breathing.

... either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives...

Trelawney's harsh voice came back to him, a whispered ghost from Dumbledore's Pensieve.

..."Come on, you can do better than that!" Sirius yelled, his voice echoing around the cavernous room.

The second jet of light hit him squarely on the chest.

The laughter had not quite died from his face, but his eyes widened in shock.

It seemed to take Sirius an age to fall. His body curved in a graceful arc as he sank backward through the ragged veil hanging from the arch...

Harry breathed in.

...he struggled hard and viciously, desperate to escape Lupin's iron grasp.

"There's nothing you can do, Harry...nothing...He's gone."

Harry breathed out.

Harry breathed in.

Breathed out.

The images began to fade into darkness, into nothing but the echoing, aching emptiness inside him.

He didn't know how long he sat there, but when he opened his eyes, he heard Uncle Vernon's rumbling snores. Every muscle ached, and many had tightened to the point he could barely move.

Eventually, he was able to stand. Hesitantly opening the door, he peered into the dark hallway.

As silently as he could, Harry pulled a tattered rag of a shirt from his trunk and crept from the cupboard to the downstairs bathroom.

He had no glasses; only the dim light from the streetlights outside created shadows and silhouettes for him to navigate by.

He didn't dare turn on the light in the bathroom. Taking exaggerated time with each movement, Harry plugged the sink, and turned on the water to just a bare trickle. While the sink filled, he stripped off his filthy clothes, throwing them aside.

Wincing, Harry forced his body through Gracie's exercises, starting with the stretches and then moving into tai'chi. The slow movements and breathing helped ease the tight knot of emotion in his chest, and the stretching relieved some of the cramps. By the time he had finished, the sink was nearly full.

Harry gave himself a quick sponge bath, relishing feel of cool water washing away grime. He even pulled off his glove and scrubbed his hand, amazed at how clear the words were against his skin.

I must not tell lies.

Gracie had come too close to that subject twice in just a few minutes. Umbridge had succeeded; she had made Harry afraid to tell a lie.

Dumbledore lies all the time by telling the truth. Just one more thing I need to learn.

He rinsed out the glove, amazed at how quickly the dragonhide shed the water.

He finally stuck his head in the sink to rinse out his hair and let the water run down around him, soaking into the rug. By morning, it would be dry.

He let himself air-dry for a few minutes before gathering his clothes and returning to collapse onto his pallet.

End Chapter

Revised 8-14-9