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.
The concept of the 'flame and the void' is copyright Robert Jordan and the Wheel of Time and any other entities, corporations, subsidiaries, or groups not named here that have legal rights to the aforementioned books. Even though I learned it from my own teacher, Jordan apparently owns it.
Gracie McAllister's explanations of Kenpo are paraphrased from Perfect Weapon (1991), a Mark DiSalle movie written by David C Wilson and starring Jeff Speakman.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: We're back to Harry here, and this sets the stage for Harry finally leaving the Dursleys. Reviews make me post faster, y'all. Keep that in mind!
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 Elusive Evan for making me continue to post this and to ElvenLaughter for support and encouragement.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Learning Curve
All too quickly, Harry's days slipped into an odd routine of ups and downs, and the bruises between them.
He woke earlier than the Dursleys and practiced in the bathroom before fixing breakfast and riding with Dudley and Vernon. He and Dudley would part ways at McAllister's. They might occasionally see each other when Gracie had Harry run the track or use a bag; otherwise, they saw each other again when Vernon picked them up.
Harry forced himself to eat dinner every night, barely noticing that as Dudley lost weight and ate less, his portion proportionally shrank. Despite his physical exertion, he was almost never hungry.
After cleaning up from dinner, he followed Dudley outside to spar. Despite the aggression, there seemed to be no hostility or hate as they fought. Dudley was disturbingly intent, focused, driven by something he didn't recognize.
Harry never seemed to gain the upper hand against Dudley. The first time Harry threw a kick, he caught Dudley in the chest and threw the bigger boy back. Next time, Dudley batted Harry's leg aside with contemptuous ease. A kick to Dudley's legs staggered him, but he quickly learned the trick of blocking with the outside of his shins, leaving Harry's legs bruised.
Only Harry's speed and reflexes gave him any edge. He could dart in and strike three times before Dudley had responded to the first blow. He used what Gracie taught him. Control and precision let him land blows, but none of them ever hurt Dudley. Even though Harry got physically stronger by the day, he didn't have the power to do much damage to his cousin. So Harry learned to strike pressure points, joints and learned how to unbalance Dudley or keep him tangled in his own arms and legs. He got in close where he could use his knees and elbows. Dudley, being a boxer, didn't fare as well then. He occasionally managed to land a lock or a hold or a throw on Dudley, but most often he was only able to dart in and out. Dudley, for his part, only rarely landed a blow on Harry. The smaller boy ducked, wove and twisted like a snake, deflecting Dudley's blows with his arms, shoulders, hands, legs and even his hips. Harry had long since learned how not to get caught or grabbed by an opponent – Dudley had taught him that at a young age – but between the flowing re-direction of tai'chi and the bone-jarring blocks of Kenpo, Harry kept all but a few of his cousin's blows from landing.
Those that did land hurt, though.
Very rarely, the two boys would embrace after a particularly hard bout, but never when Uncle Vernon was watching – and after a few nights, he never stopped watching.
Uncle Vernon smiled every time he saw Dudley land a blow; he silently gloated over every bruise Dudley inflicted.
- 0 -
What Uncle Vernon started the first night back from Hogwarts escalated the first time Harry had a nightmare.
He had been screaming in his sleep – he couldn't remember if it was Sirius or Cedric, or both.
The door to the cupboard had been wrenched open and Vernon had savagely dragged Harry out, throwing him to floor. His scar had been burning and aching, and his mind twisting with the sensation of Voldemort looking through his eyes.
As he hit the floor, his stomach rebelled and he retched, vomiting what little dinner he'd eaten. Vernon had bellowed, but Harry didn't remember the words.
It was the first time since his Hogwarts letter Uncle Vernon had used anything more than his open hand or his belt.
Harry barely responded, barely reacted as he was struck. All he could hear was Voldemort's breathy laughter echoing through his thoughts.
That was the turning point, the breaking point.
It seemed the catharsis from violently punishing his nephew was too much for Vernon to resist. From then on, he found every excuse to hit Harry; the more unresponsive Harry was, the more aggressive Uncle Vernon became. The simple clink of dishes against one another while Harry washed them – or his unkempt appearance, unshaven and un-showered – would drive Vernon to hit him.
Harry said nothing, the sick feeling of Voldemort sharing his mind, seeing his shame, relishing his pain, his helplessness - began to erode what spark and spirit Harry had left.
There was a part of him that wanted to tell Ginny about it, but he didn't. He was too ashamed.
And there was a part of him that thought he deserved it. Sirius was dead because of him. His parents were dead because of him. Cedric had died because of him, and others would die because of him. If he told Ginny, she might break the Ministry-imposed isolation. He didn't want her or any of his friends in danger.
Harry also knew if he told, Voldemort might see it in his mind.
He hid in his cupboard every night and meditated until Vernon had fallen asleep. He practiced in the bathroom, gave himself a sponge bath, and fell back into bed – but no matter how tired he was, he tried to clear his mind.
The nightmares and vision almost always came, and with them came Uncle Vernon.
No matter how he tried, when Vernon punished him, Voldemort slithered through cracks in his mind, watching and laughing.
Harry was only strong enough to fight one of them at a time. He chose to fight Voldemort, to make every moment of possession an agony for the Dark Lord. He wanted to make every second Voldemort was in his mind an uphill battle.
He knew he was succeeding. He could feel the Dark Lord struggle against him every time he entered Harry's mind.
Voldemort was almost always with him at Privet Drive. The Dark Lord forced Harry to dream, showing him the horrors he wrought; the people he killed. And he mocked Harry for being able to do nothing.
"Some great hero, you are, Harry Potter. That you can just but watch while I control your mind and force you to witness what I do."
Harry knew he couldn't keep Voldemort from seeing the jibe had hit home, but he kept fighting.
The Dark Lord would not win without a fight.
No members from the Order of the Phoenix openly watched the Dursleys, but Harry knew they were there. He felt them following him, like a prickle on the back of his neck. When he paused to listen or watch he could tell where they were. The soft whisper of an invisibility cloak – a sound he knew very well – or faint footsteps gave them away.
He suspected there were Ministry watchers as well, but he never tried to find out. Unmasking a member of the Order would be forgiven. Unmasking a Ministry watcher would not be.
He tried to convince himself the Order's watchers wanted to help him, but couldn't. Little things, like the bar of soap that appeared in the bathroom after Petunia had slapped him for being unwashed and filthy – even though he was never allowed a shower. Or that his glasses re-appeared, repaired, no matter how mangled Vernon left them. Somehow, there were always first-aid supplies in his trunk, or bottles of water next to his bed.
It was proof enough they were trying.
The only time he thought he was alone was with Gracie. Some nameless, growing sixth sense told him they didn't follow him into the gym; nor could he feel Voldemort's presence while he was with Gracie. He was grateful for the silence and relative solitude while he trained.
At least that was his own.
- 0 -
Harry clung to his training with Gracie as a lifeline; at least with her he was doing something to prepare himself for what was coming.
After the first week, Gracie had looked at him long and hard. She gauged him and wondered just how far he was willing to take his training. Regardless, there was one question she needed answered.
"How long do we have?"
He wasn't sure how long he had until Dumbledore and the Order had decided he'd had enough and could leave the Dursley's. A part of him wished they would leave him to rot.
Harry had shrugged. "Five or six weeks. Maybe more."
Gracie had nodded.
Every morning, Gracie began lessons the same way. They stretched enough to keep them from stiffening up and then they sat, legs crossed, facing each other. Eyes closed, he would breathe, focusing on the mantra she had taught him.
Focus.
Focus and Control.
Focused mind. Controlled body.
He would clear his mind, forcing a wall between his thoughts and his emotions, his sensations, and hold it there as long as he could.
Sometimes, when he was having trouble, she put a candle between them. With a flick of her wrist, she would light a match and then the candle.
"Stare at the flame and nothing but the flame. Let it become your entire world. Then feed the flame with your passions, your emotions, your sensations, your thoughts, your dreams – everything. The flame will burn it away until you stand inside a void."
Harry had the most success with the candle; he could feed it everything but the core of him, the place not even Voldemort had touched, and stand in the void.
Next, they would work through the tai'chi form – or at least as many steps as Harry had learned – a warm-up, she called it.
Each day became more strenuous than the one before. Each day, she added more steps to the form and every day she commented that she noticed he had practiced. How she could tell, Harry never figured out.
Mornings were spent on tai'chi, afternoons on Kenpo; the harder, more aggressive movements and forms were a sharp contrast to the slow grace and seamless unity of tai'chi.
But just like tai'chi, she started Kenpo by teaching him how to stand, how to move, how to walk, how to breathe – before she taught him even the most basic technique. There was almost no aspect of his physical being she left untouched.
As Harry learned one technique, she taught another – there seemed to be no end to variation and kinds of movements.
How to disarm an armed man. How to block. How and when and where to strike. Different kinds of strikes: hand open, hand balled into a fist, the heel of his palm, the stiffened tips of his fingers, elbows and knees. How to kick. When and where to kick. All different kinds of kicks: spin kicks, front kicks, side kicks, back kicks and crescent kicks. A seemingly infinite number of locks, blocks, holds and throws. She trained him in how to use balance, leverage and movement to master himself and defeat any opponent.
And each movement in Kenpo came at the right time, in the right way.
"Kenpo is a combination of ancient fighting techniques and modern scientific principles; an unending flow of motion – every move creates a specific reaction in your opponent. Each reaction leads you to your next move."
Gracie was walking in a circle around him as he worked the forms. Her voice kept cadence with his motions. She didn't pause or miss a word as her hands adjusted his body, correcting mistakes.
"Every strike is a block; every block, a strike. Each move flows into the next."
Harry eventually lost track of how many days and weeks he'd been training. The days blurred together and he didn't let himself think too much about the nights.
No matter how tired or sore he was, he seemed able to find more energy. Sometimes it seemed like he was able to draw on some bright core inside him. The times he would lose himself in the movements or the meditation, he could sometimes see a flickering green fire just outside of his reach. A part of him wanted to reach that fire, but another part of him rebelled, holding him back from it.
He had written about it in his journey book, expecting Gracie to think he was insane. She had just written back one sentence: 'Don't push it. It'll come.'
He didn't understand her. She was the harshest taskmaster he'd ever known, but she seemed strangely gentle at times. And there were moments where Harry swore she wanted to cross an invisible line between them and reach out to him in some way, but held herself back.
Sometimes, Harry wanted her to cross that line; but more often than not, he was grateful she let him keep his distance.
I don't want her to be hurt because of me.
Gracie still found small ways to reach out to him – like the morning Gracie had walked in and wrinkled her nose.
"Oi, you! Those clothes reek. Here."
She had thrown him a wad of fabric, which had turned out to be several pairs of loose fitting black pants – the bottom half of the gi uniform he didn't have any way to buy.
- 0 -
The first time they had sparred, she had him beat in less than a minute. After helping him up, she had asked one of her infuriatingly simple questions.
"What's the best way to keep your opponent from hitting you?"
Harry had thought the answer obvious. "Block the attack; redirect it. Use it to your advantage."
She had just smiled at him. "The best way not to be hit is to avoid the strike."
They had spent hours working on how to twist his body, shift his weight or his shoulders to avoid blows. Harry's natural skill at manipulating his body in small ways to maneuver a broomstick served him in good stead, and he picked up that element of fighting quickly. Other techniques were harder; especially some of the theory behind it.
Gracie had explained: "Action and reaction. Every action has – and causes – an equal and opposite reaction. Make your reaction an action in and of itself instead of merely a reaction."
Harry had just shaken his head. How can I make a reaction an action instead of just a reaction? That doesn't make any sense!
He naturally favored his right hand, and Gracie took merciless advantage of it, adding to his bruises.
Inwardly, she winced every time a blow landed...but a gut instinct – what her mother and sister called 'maternal clairvoyance' – told her that she could not go easy on him. Not even a little bit.
"Two hands, kid. They're equal parts of your body. Neglect one, and you cripple the other. Focus. Balance. Control. Those are the three pillars of anything you do. The same mental and spiritual skills you develop here you can apply to anything."
He worked hard at using both hands, but relied on his reflexes and speed to give help close the gap in skill between them, but time after time, day after day, Gracie laid him out on the mats.
He always got back up to try again.
Gracie said nothing about her increasingly battered student, but her eyes asked questions that Harry didn't answer. Like the wand that rested on the chair every day, it was something they didn't talk about.
"When you're fighting someone, don't pay attention to their body. Watch their eyes. The body can lie as easily as the tongue. But the eyes never lie."
Sometimes, when he looked into her gray eyes, he could see a reflection of her in her eyes, what she was going to do next. Sometimes it helped. Sometimes it didn't.
He continually marveled at the subtlety of what he was learning. He had seen action movies before, hiding on the stairs and peering at the television. The martial arts the movie stars used were so different from the almost gentle lethality Gracie was trying to impart to him.
There were moments when she frightened him – moments when he caught a glimpse of what she was truly capable of.
It was those moments when he most wanted to learn more; to become someone that could fight Voldemort. He wanted to just draw her knowledge and skill from her and let it pour into him...
But all he could do was practice.
Every afternoon, they sparred. They breathed in sync as they whirled and spun, Harry finding the same fierce pleasure in sparring her he did sparring Dudley, though he had long since figured out he did as well as he did because she was teaching him. The harder he tried, the better he did. When he got overconfident or stopped thinking, Gracie punished him for it.
"Control, kid. Focus and control of self. Train your spirit as you train your body, developing inner strength, balance and harmony as you learn. A martial artist is more than a master of fighting; he is a master of himself."
Every time he started to feel confident in what he'd learned, that he was getting close to learning enough, he reminded himself of that night at the Ministry of Magic. He never wanted to forget what his arrogance caused; what his stupidity had cost him – and what it had cost everyone he had drug along in his wake.
But there was one phrase she only had to repeat once that drove home what he had failed to do. Failed to be. Gracie had spoken softly, as if she knew the words were knives.
"Anger is defeated self."
He winced, thinking of that night in Dumbledore's office.
...he felt the white-hot anger lick his insides, blazing in the terrible emptiness, filling him with the desire to hurt Dumbledore for his calmness and his empty words...
..."THEN-I-DON'T-WANT-T0-BE-HUMAN!" Harry roared, and he seized one of the delicate silver instruments from the spindle-legged table and flung it across the room. It shattered into a hundred tiny pieces against the wall...
Harry bowed his head in shame.
End Chapter
Revised 01-16-08
