2. Boxing And Karate
Wherein Harry broods about his life on the car ride home, reaches a truce with his relatives, gets angry and almost harms Hedwig, exchanges mutual apologies with Dudley, writes a demand letter to Dumbledore, becomes friendly with Dudley, corresponds with Ron, gets his own clothes, begins working out at Dudley's gym, meets a mysterious karate teacher, begins to learn wandless, silent magic, and learns a little about his cousin.
Disclaimer: I neither own nor claim any other rights in the characters and other concepts created by J.K. Rowling. I make no money, nor do I seek any commercial advantage from this work. As such it constitutes “fair use” as defined in 17 U.S.C. §107.
Chapter 2 - Boxing and Karate
At the same time that the Order of the Phoenix was assembling at Hogwarts Castle, Harry Potter, the subject of so much of the Order's planning and concern, found himself in a rather less comfortable situation. He was crammed in the back of his Uncle Vernon's black Mercedes, with the cage containing his pet snowy owl, Hedwig, perched awkwardly on his knees. Beside him sprawled Harry's massive cousin Dudley, who was, as usual, taking up far more than his fair share of the back seat.
Nobody was saying very much, which was fine with Harry. If he slouched backwards in the seat, he could see his own green eyes, lightning bolt scar, and unruly black hair staring back at him in the rear mirror. If he sat up straight, he could see Uncle Vernon's beady eyes, beefy face and bristling salt-and-pepper mustache. Ordinarily, choosing between those options would have wrecked Harry's posture for a week, but at this moment, he was not sure which face he found more distasteful.
His Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had always treated Harry as if he were something particularly disgusting they had found growing in some dank corner of a lavatory. Aunt Petunia was Harry's deceased mother Lily's sister, and a Muggle through and through. From what Harry had learnt about his mother over the years, and what was obvious about his aunt, Lily had been everything Petunia was not - pretty, intelligent, and most of all magical. As a result, Harry was certain that his Aunt's view of his mother, and thus of him, was strongly coloured by a deep-seated inferiority complex.
But at the moment, Harry found himself to be almost as disgusting and inferior as his relatives. He was brooding again. Every adult he had ever cared about had died - and he now knew they had died because of him. More to the point, his mother, father, and godfather had all met sudden, violent deaths because of some cockamamie prophecy that he, Harry, might be the one wizard who could do away with Lord Voldemort (formerly Tom Riddle). Voldemort was only the most powerful Dark wizard that anyone living could remember.
`Me?' he thought. `What makes me so sodding special? Why am I always the survivor?'
The so-called seer who had revealed this prophecy was a ditzy old bat. Harry knew this for certain because Sybill Trelawney had been his Divination professor for almost three mind numbing years - until (he grinned ever so slightly) she had been unceremoniously sacked last March. Sacked in the middle of the term, no less.
Trelawney had wrongly predicted his death so many times since he had come to Hogwarts, that he had lost count. Who was to say that this prophecy was any more accurate? Why did everybody, especially Dumbledore, think that it was? Why did everybody have to treat him so differently from anyone else? Harry gripped Hedwig's cage rather more tightly than necessary.
Still, Harry had to admit that there did seem to be something to all of this “savior Harry” business. After all, he had survived Voldemort's Killing Curse - when he was only one year old. Nobody had ever done that before. After Voldemort had murdered Harry's father, and then his mother, with Avada kedavra, the Dark wizard had turned the same curse on Harry. At that moment, he should have died.
But he had not. The deadly curse had rebounded, or something like that (nobody had ever been able to tell him exactly what had happened), and destroyed Voldemort's corporeal form. Harry was left with the scar in the middle of his forehead, with haunting memories of blinding green light, and with his name famous throughout the wizarding world as “The Boy Who Lived.”
Ugh.
Still, he had ended up in far better shape than Voldemort. The self-anointed “Dark Lord” (or what remained of him) had been left with no body at all, no ability to do magic, indeed, no abilities at all except the power to possess the bodies of other beings.
But possess other beings Voldemort did.
On his eleventh birthday, Harry discovered to his great shock and indescribable pleasure that he was a wizard and had been accepted into Hogwarts, far and away the most distinguished magical school in the British Isles. That experience soon turned Dark, as he encountered Voldemort near the end of his first year - inside Hogwarts itself. Voldemort had taken possession of the school's Defence Against the Dark Arts professor in an attempt to return to human form using an Elixir of Life made from a pilfered Philosopher's Stone. Poor Professor Quirrell had been killed in the resulting confrontation. Harry could well have been killed as well. However, he had escaped that fate with the timely help of his friends and by grace of the even more timely arrival of Headmaster Dumbledore.
In Harry's second year, Voldemort - or at least some kind of animated memory of him - had possessed his best friend Ron's little sister, Ginny (then in her first year), through an enchanted diary. Again Harry had almost died, but in the end he had managed to destroy not only the memory of Voldemort that had been in that diary, but also a deadly 50-foot Basilisk. For all Harry knew, the body of the Basilisk was still lying where it fell, in the Chamber of Secrets, far beneath Hogwarts Castle.
Voldemort's memory had been draining Ginny's life away, but after Harry had driven a Basilisk fang dripping with venom through the diary, Ginny's life essence had flowed back to her. She too had lived, apparently with no lasting injury or other knock-on effects - aside from having difficulty dealing with the strong emotions that she felt for Harry.
`Well, at least one thing resolved itself during the just passed term,' Harry mused. `She's finally over me, and a much better friend as a result.'
Voldemort had not been in evidence during Harry's third year, but in fourth year, it got even worse - other people started dying. Cedric Diggory, perhaps the finest wizard produced by Hufflepuff House in decades, was murdered in cold blood on Voldemort's order. Harry cringed at his unintentional culpability in that death as well. It had been his suggestion, his not-so-bright idea, for them both to tie for top honors in the Triwizard tournament by simultaneously grabbing the trophy cup that signified victory. The cup turned out to be a disguised Portkey, which straightaway took them both to Voldemort.
Harry had cheated death once again, duelling Voldemort to a draw and escaping back to Hogwarts because some Death Eater had apparently made a Portkey programming mistake. Cedric had not been so lucky, and Harry had returned to Hogwarts with Cedric's corpse in tow. Harry still had nightmares about it. He knew he had made a bad decision, and because of that decision someone else had died.
But the just concluded term topped everything. Because his instructor had been obnoxious, Harry had skived off the Occlumency lessons that Dumbledore had told him in no uncertain terms were of critical importance. Harry had thus allowed Voldemort to infiltrate his very mind. Voldemort planted a false vision of Harry's beloved godfather, Sirius Black, being tortured in the Ministry of Magic.
Despite being warned, Harry had taken Voldemort's bait, hook, line, and sinker. With four equally foolhardy friends - and a fifth who came anyway after her warnings were ignored - he had heedlessly invaded the Ministry in search of Sirius. They had walked straight into a trap sprung by a dozen Death Eaters commanded by the powerfully evil Lucius Malfoy. Their spur-of-the-moment mission barely escaped disaster. The six of them had survived only because an Order of the Phoenix rescue squad had saved them.
Tears came to Harry's eyes as he thought of how Sirius had insisted on accompanying the rescuers despite Dumbledore's better judgment. Sirius had been killed in the ensuing combat - blasted through the veil of death by his own cousin, Death Eater Bellatrix Lestrange. Voldemort himself had shown up to reinforce his minions, just as Dumbledore had come to buttress the forces of the Order. Dumbledore had been the better wizard that night. Only Voldemort and one Death Eater had escaped, but that one had been Sirius' killer.
During the struggle, Voldemort had briefly possessed Harry himself. Here, surely, was the genesis of many nightmares to come. Still, Voldemort had not maintained the possession. Dumbledore believed that this had represented Harry's strength, but his was not the only interpretation. Voldemort had just been trying to get someone to kill Harry. When nobody did, the Dark wizard probably had gotten frustrated and left.
`Who will I get killed next?' Harry wondered. Would it be his best friend Ron Weasley? Ron had all of Harry's reckless bravery, but was not as lucky. Poor Ron had sacrificed himself for Harry repeatedly. In the ultimate for-keeps chess match at the end of first year, Ron had been knocked unconscious for his troubles. He had almost been crushed by a rockfall in their second year. He had landed in the infirmary again, this time with a horribly broken leg, at the end of third year. Harry had rescued Ron from drowning in fourth year. In the just-past incident at the Ministry, Ron had suffered some sort of encounter with a magical brain. That had once again incapacitated him - leaving Ron with lasting scars, bizarre hallucinations and possible personality changes.
What about his other best friend Hermione Granger, who was probably cleverest person - witch or Muggle - Harry had ever met? She had solved the riddle of the potions in first year, and discovered what had been petrifying students in second year. The following year, Hermione had brought about Sirius' escape from Ministry custody by manipulating time itself. That escape had permitted Harry to enjoy a quasi-parental, if clandestine, relationship with Sirius for two years. Without this girl's abilities, Sirius would have lost his soul to a Dementor's Kiss, and he would have been thought of as an escaped murderer who richly deserved that fate.
Hermione had once again proved her mettle the preceding week. She had warned Harry beforehand that the vision he had experienced was probably a trap, but he had not listened. If only he had, Harry thought bitterly, Voldemort's fake vision would not have fooled him, and the rescue that precipitated Sirius' death would have been quite necessary.
Harry had never felt so alone. He was lonelier even than before he learnt he was magical, when the spiders in the cupboard under the stairs had been his best friends. From the beginning, Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia never tired of telling him that he was not wanted in their home. Now, what began as a matter of their inconvenience had become tinged with fear. Last summer his relatives had learnt that Harry was not the only possible target. Merely because he was around, the Dursleys - and particularly that spoilt brat Dudley, who had just dripped ice cream on Harry's pant leg - could also be targets. Right then and there, his aunt and uncle would have kicked Harry out in a trice, but Dumbledore had somehow stopped them.
Dumbledore. All last year the Headmaster had ignored Harry and kept him ignorant both of what was happening in the struggle against Voldemort and of his unique place in that struggle. Harry had been reduced to nicking newspapers from dustbins and sneaking a listen to news broadcasts through open windows. And now, dammit, it was happening all over again.
At the price of losing Sirius and almost being killed himself, Harry had finally squeezed two pieces of critical information out of Dumbledore at the end of last term. First, Harry had to stay with the Dursleys to maintain the potency of a charm of sorts that protected him (and them) from harm at Voldemort's hands. Harry shuddered involuntarily.
Second, Harry had learnt that it was his singular fate either to kill Voldemort or be killed by him in some sort of wizarding Armageddon. He shuddered even more at that prospect. He just was not a killer. There was no way he could be ready anytime soon for such a confrontation with a wizard who had honed his Dark skills for decades. Harry concluded that he was as likely to die as he was to graduate from Hogwarts.
Harry was jarred from his morose musings as the tyres on the Mercedes (Uncle Vernon would only drive a “posh” car, since he judged others by the kind of cars they drove) bumped into a driveway. They had left the A-road, but rather than Privet Drive, Harry saw them pulling into a petrol station.
`Q8,' Harry thought, `what an unusual name. And to think that Uncle Vernon complains about odd wizard names.' But then his uncle complained about just about everything - especially everything connected with him.
Watching Uncle Vernon struggle with the petrol pump, a slight grin crossed Harry's face. Harry thought about how fascinated the Muggle-loving Arthur Weasley would have been with this procedure.
Harry then saw Uncle Vernon motioning to him to get out of the car. So that was it; Uncle Vernon was using the petrol stop as an opportunity to talk to him alone. Nervously, he opened the door and stepped into his uncle's presence.
Vernon hissed, “Petunia and I have had a talk with the head of that freak school of yours, that Bumblemore….”
“That's Dumbledore,” corrected Harry.
“Whatever,” Uncle Vernon continued. “He explained to us that as long as you stay with us at least part of the summer, something in your blood relationship to Petunia will protect all of us from that maniac Voldomart.”
“That's Voldemort,” corrected Harry again. “You make him sound like a supermarket. Did you know that most wizards can't even bear to speak his name?”
Uncle Vernon winced, more from the word “wizard” than from the name of the most feared Dark wizard in over a century, but he carried on. “I've therefore agreed to let you stay for as long as it takes for this … magic … (he had to force himself to say that word) to be effective. But that's not all. I've also agreed to no more interference in your … magical … lifestyle. So my attempts to stamp out your freakiness are at an end. But the same goes for you. Your side of this bargain is to respect the way we live our lives as well.”
“How so?” asked Harry, genuinely perplexed. He thought he had always been more than accommodating to his relatives' extreme and unremitting Muggleness.
“That means no more rubbing your condition in our faces,” growled Uncle Vernon. “Your freaky friends can come and visit you here, but they have to look and act normal. I don't want any more embarrassing questions from the neighbours, like I had the last two times some of your kind turned up. No more blowing up my living room, or assaulting my guests - and especially I don't want anybody doing anything to Dudley. He's finally started making something out of himself that I can be truly proud of, and I don't want your lot ruining that. So, don't bother us and we won't bother you, got it?”
“Fair enough,” responded Harry somewhat blankly. He was undecided whether he should be pleased or upset. He was facing a summer's worth of hostile indifference from the Dursleys, but that was probably an improvement on past summers. At least there would be no more bars on his windows.
“And one more thing….” Uncle Vernon said before suddenly cursing loudly. He had allowed the tank to overflow, and his suit trousers now reeked of petrol. “One more thing…. Since we've stopped trying to force you to be like us, you no longer have to do any household chores - no more cooking or cleaning. But seeing as how you don't have any money, if you'd like to earn a few quid, we'll pay you a fiver a day to do jobs around the house. Or you can get the going pay for casual labour on the loading dock at Grunnings, if you'd rather. It's up to you.”
Harry thought that Uncle Vernon's offer of paid work had something to recommend it - at least until something better came along. Whilst Harry had plenty of Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts, he was completely without Muggle money. He was determined to get some of his own Muggle clothes. He was sick of dressing in Cousin Dudley's oversized hand-me-downs. He also wanted to be as active as possible. Being active meant he would be thinking about things other than his grief and his guilt over what had just happened in the Ministry.
“D'you still want to watch our news and read our papers?” Uncle Vernon asked, his face clouding.
“Yes, do you think I could?” Harry answered, his mood lightening slightly.
“Well, that confirms that Dumbledore and I agree on at least one thing,” continued Uncle Vernon, ignoring Harry's question.
“What's that?” replied Harry, frowning again.
Uncle Vernon paused and delivered the punch line. “After last year, neither of us trusts you farther than we can throw you. He's still not telling you anything.”
Harry winced, as this insult struck very close to home. After all, it certainly seemed like Dumbledore was abandoning him again over the summer. Seething, Harry shot back, “What did I do to you last year? I told you the bloody truth. I chanced expulsion from Hogwarts to save your son's life!”
“Don't give me that rubbish,” shouted Uncle Vernon, his voice rising along with Harry's. “You thought nothing of sending the lot of us halfway to the coast on a wild goose chase for some nonexistent All-England Best-Kept Suburban Lawn Competition so you could run away whilst we were gone. No lies, my foot. Why should we trust you about anything after that? That story was as fake as a nine-bob note. I suppose you've told your own headmaster the same sorts of cock and bull stories, and that's why he doesn't trust you either”
Harry spluttered in almost incoherent rage, “I didn't, that was….” He stopped short. He was stuck. There was no way he could tell Uncle Vernon what had really happened the night he left without exposing himself to some very nasty questions about the Order. Besides, Uncle Vernon had another point. Harry had indeed told more than his share of lies to the Hogwarts staff, Dumbledore included. Unable to find a suitable response, Harry flopped back into the Mercedes in sullen silence.
They rolled down the last B-roads and pulled into the spotless driveway of number four Privet Drive. Harry took no notice of the precisely edged front garden and the new, healthy beds of yellowish begonias and bluish agapanthus that complimented the immaculate house. Without saying another word, Harry unloaded his trunk and Hedwig's cage and headed to his room - the smallest of three bedrooms on the second storey. Not taking very much care to keep his trunk from leaving marks on the Dursleys' spotless walls and polished stairs, Harry made his way to his room as quickly as he could manage.
In a blazing temper- at his relatives for barely tolerating him, at Dumbledore for keeping so many secrets from him, at himself for Sirius' death, and at his fate to kill or be killed by Voldemort - Harry noisily started unpacking his things. He sat down next to his trunk, swearing under his breath, and began tossing his clothes in the general direction of the beat up chest of drawers on the opposite wall, hardly caring if anything he was hurling actually fell into the open drawers
“You really could use a better way of blowing off steam….”
Harry whirled around and saw the bulky figure of his Cousin Dudley standing somewhat nervously in the doorway.
“What do you want?” spat Harry furiously.
“A word, if I could,” replied Dudley, not a trace of malice in his voice.
“Go ahead then, talk,” said Harry, barely looking at his cousin, as he threw his dress robes in the general direction of the wardrobe.
“Mum…. She told me what you did that night last year.… The bit with the Dementors,” said Dudley, somewhat at a loss for words.
“Right,” replied Harry flatly, “and now you're here to beat me senseless because you're certain that I put them up to it, I suppose.” Harry threw his trainers into the closet, hard. One of them struck the edge of the closet door, bounced back, and glanced off of Hedwig's cage, upsetting it. Since Hedwig was still in the cage, there followed a loud screeching sound, and the frantic beating of wings against bars. Harry scrambled to his feet, slipped on a loose sock, and stumbled, banging his knee on the metal bar across the foot of his bed. His knee throbbing, he threw himself towards Hedwig's cage. He only got one hand around it, though, and it swung crazily as he picked it up.
“Don't worry Hedwig, I'll get you out of there,” he assured the frantic owl, in what he hoped was a soothing voice. The gambit failed. As Harry fumbled with the lock on the cage, unable to use magic to open it without risking another expulsion letter for a Muggle Vicinage violation, Hedwig bit one of his fingers.
“Owww!!” Harry howled, so enraged that he could no longer see or think straight. Over the last minute, one pratfall after another had added physical pain in several parts of his body to his already painful thoughts. He snapped.
“AARRGHH!!”
He picked up the cage again, ready to hurl it through the nearby window.
“Harry, stop it. Don't be daft.” Dudley yelled, as he restrained the much smaller boy. Dudley put a powerful arm under each of Harry's shoulders from behind, easily lifting the comparatively slight wizard completely off the ground and pinning him against his massive chest.
“You'll kill it, and then you'll feel dreadful when you've finally calmed down,” Dudley grunted as Harry struggled, flailing the air with his legs and one free arm. Something seemed to be glowing. Then Dudley felt his arms and chest go numb, as if a powerful current were passing through them. Even though he was quite strong - interscholastic boxing champ at his own school, Smeltings, for two years running - Dudley had to release Harry.
Harry slid limply to the floor, with Dudley's words resonating in his head. His anger fled as quickly as it came, and he gently set down Hedwig's cage. All he felt now was ashamed. Dudley was right. He had almost killed, or at least seriously injured, his precious snowy owl in a fit of uncontrolled rage. Dudley looked at him, eyes wide.
“Blimey, what did you just do to me?” his cousin asked.
“I don't know, what did I do to you?” Harry mumbled emotionlessly.
“I haven't felt anything like that since I stuck a key in a power plug when I was five,” Dudley gasped. “I couldn't hold onto you any longer.”
“I've no idea,” Harry croaked with bewilderment. “I was out of control. I wasn't even thinking about doing magic. My wand's still in my trunk….” Harry paused, “but I think I did something similar last year when Uncle Vernon tried to choke me a couple of hours before the Dementor attack.”
Reeling, both at what he had done and what he had almost done, Harry sat on the floor running his hands through his unruly black hair. He was oblivious to Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia thundering up the stairs. They were fearful that Harry was doing something terrible to their son.
“Thanks,” choked out Harry, his throat feeling as if it were full of ashes. In the doorway, his uncle's and aunt's eyes grew wide. Uncle Vernon lowered the andirons he had been meaning to pummel “that freak boy” with.
Harry had never voluntarily thanked Dudley for anything.
Their jaws dropped further when Dudley spoke with a similar tone. “That's what I came in here to tell you.” Harry looked up at his cousin blankly as he continued. “Thank you for saving my life, Harry. You could have been killed, or worse expelled, but you fought those horrible Dementor things rather than leave me to them - and I haven't done a thing, ever, to deserve something like that from you.”
Harry was flabbergasted, and his aunt and uncle were stunned. Dudley never thanked anybody for anything unless he was getting some sort of gift, and then Dudley's insincerity was usually obvious. But then it was true, in a way, that Harry had given his cousin a most precious gift - the gift of his life.
There was utter, and awkward, silence. Even Hedwig stopped screeching. Realising that he eventually had to say something, Harry slowly pulled himself to his feet. “Umm… That's okay, Dudley.” Harry tentatively held out his hand. Dudley grasped it and they shook hands for the first time in their lives. In his first year at Hogwarts, an encounter with a mountain troll had permanently transformed Harry's relationship with a certain bushy haired girl. Now an encounter with two Dementors seemed to have wrought a similar change in Harry's relationship with his burly cousin and to a lesser extent with his aunt and uncle as well.
Satisfied that their presence was not necessary to protect Dudley, Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia left. Harry sighed and told Dudley, “It's already 10:00, and I still have to unpack and all. I need to get some sleep. It's been a very long day for me.”
Dudley replied haltingly, “umm, I go running every morning at 5:00 a.m. to keep fit, and then I go to my gym and train for several hours. You could come along with me tomorrow if you'd like. There are plenty of things at the gym that you can hit, punch, and kick without having to worry about the consequences.”
“Mmm, yes, that sounds good,” yawned Harry. “I could use to hit something right about now.” Dudley left. Harry rummaged through the wreckage of his trunk until he found an unopened box of owl nuts. He knelt next to Hedwig's cage and, paying extraordinarily close attention this time, undid the lock.
“I'm so, so sorry, girl,” Harry whimpered. “Have as many treats as you like.” I'll never do anything like that again, I promise. I really mean that.” He put the open box of owl nuts in the cage, leaving the door open. He also opened the bedroom window. “I'm going to leave it open all summer,” Harry vowed. “The Dursleys can't tell me not to any more.”
He resolved then and there to write to Headmaster Dumbledore. Seizing quill and parchment, Harry started scribbling about those things he thought he wanted in return for going through with the Herculean task assigned to him by the prophecy.
Dear Headmaster Dumbledore,
Now that I am back home, I am increasingly worried that I am going to be treated like a mushroom again - kept in the dark and fed manure. I got so angry over this today that I almost killed my owl Hedwig. If I had done that to her, I can only imagine what I might have done to myself next. I might have saved Voldemort the trouble.
This has to stop. I am ready to carry through with my part of the you-know-what, but you have to start treating me like a partner and stop treating me like a little boy. That little boy has grown up. You should know that after the Ministry. Here is what I want:
-
I want current information. I need to know how the war is going and what my part in it has to be. If I have not earned your trust by now, tell me, and I will do something else with my life.
-
I want you to get Sirius cleared of the crimes he did not commit. He died for us, so this is the least we can do for him.
-
I need to be able to write Ron and Hermione, and for them not to be forced to hide things from me like last summer. Anything extra that you have planned for me over the holiday, I want them to be with me.
-
I want my broom back, and my right to play Quidditch for Gryffindor.
Please reply promptly. I am sure that I will go mad here if you treat me like you did last year. I am not going to stand for it this time.
Harry
Satisfied with his ultimatum - and actually taking perverse pride in his rudeness towards the Headmaster - Harry carefully folded the parchment and turned to Hedwig. Hedwig fluffed out her feathers, and eyed him suspiciously.
Harry almost choked over the size of the lump in his throat. “I'm sorry Hedwig. I really am. We still need each other, we do. Right now you're my only link to the world where I belong.”
She looked at Harry with her amber eyes, studied him a bit, and hooted. Tentatively, Hedwig extended her leg and allowed him to affix the letter. Harry stroked the owl for about ten minutes, until all her pearly feathers were just so. He carried her to the open window. And she gave him an affectionate nip before disappearing into the night. At least that had gone right.
Harry then went to bed, exhausted by the day's events. He lay awake on his pillow staring at the light patterns on the ceiling. Alone and miserable, he contemplated whether it all was worth it. Maybe if he ended it all, that would save the rest from being targets. Taking his own life would not be so hard after all. The curse was only two words, and he now knew he had the power to perform an unforgivable…. All he had lacked was the will.
It was a useless exercise because Harry knew he would never go through with it. It was not the Gryffindor way. Sirius, like those before him, had died so he could live. Hermione had nearly died. He could never demean such sacrifice by throwing his life away. Exhaustion finally claimed him, and Harry finally fell into a somewhat troubled sleep dreaming about how his body count had almost reached five.
* * * *
Harry's troubled dreams ended as he awoke early the next morning to the sound of Dudley's rapping. “Are you going to go running with me or not?” rasped Dudley impatiently.
“Oh, all right, give me ten, okay?” responded Harry in a groggy voice. Harry threw on a nondescript pair of shorts and a Weird Sisters T-shirt that Ginny had given him. He laced up his trainers, and cursed under his breath when he had to retie them after the knot got caught in the threads of his deteriorating socks. Finally, and threw some water on his face and ran a comb across his head - to no apparent effect. Then he then went downstairs to face his unknown future as someone whom Cousin Dudley actually tolerated.
“Now,” said Dudley as they got outside, “you need to do a little stretching, like this.” Dudley demonstrated the exercise. “Otherwise, you're liable to pull a muscle. Blimey, don't you have any better shoes and socks? You're definitely going to raise a fine crop of blisters.”
“This is all I've got. It'll have to do. After all, I don't get many Muggle presents,” spat Harry, somewhat embarrassed. He was beginning to understand how Ron felt about being poor.
“What's Muggle?” asked Dudley matter-of-factly.
“Wizard name for non-magical people like you, Uncle Vernon, and Aunt Petunia,” answered Harry in a similar tone of voice.
“Oh,” said Dudley, “just so it's not an insult. What are the Weird Sisters?”
“A band…. A wizard band,” explained Harry.
“When I go running alone, I usually take along my Walkman,” grunted Dudley, “I have a bunch of music you could listen to.”
“I don't have a Walkman, and I wouldn't know how to use one if I did,” said Harry.
Dudley changed the subject back to running. “Anyway my normal run is along Magnolia Crescent, to the park. There are loads of paths in there, I have this circuit that I do, it's about six kilometres all told…. I try to run it twice….”
When they returned a couple of hours later, Harry was panting hard, a stitch in his side and blisters on his feet. He was amazed at the change in Dudley over the past year. Whilst his cousin could still give a baby killer whale a go in size, he was no longer a shapeless blob. Harry was in pretty good form from Quidditch, but larger boy now had the stamina to run him into the ground anytime he wanted. Harry's competitive instincts were aroused, and he resolved that he would go running every morning and that sometime before the end of the summer he would beat Dudley.
“Take a shower, and be ready in 45 minutes. We'll take off for the gym then,” yelled Dudley at Harry's retreating figure climbing the stairs.
Gasping, and sweating, Harry stumbled into his room - only to be smacked on the forehead by a brown ball of fuzz that was twittering and hooting wildly. “Oww, what the…. Oh, hi Pig, got something from Ron?”
Harry chased down Ron's diminutive and hyperactive owl Pigwidgeon, and with some difficulty removed the parchment attached to the squirming owl's leg. He let the small bird drink from Hedwig's water tray, which was okay because Hedwig had yet to return from her delivery to the Headmaster. Otherwise, Hedwig would never have tolerated Pig near her cage. Hedwig thought that Pig lacked sufficient sense of owl dignity.
Dignity or no, Pig would surely zoom away if Harry let him. Thus, Harry shut Pig in Hedwig's cage, in case he wanted to respond to Ron immediately.
Hey Harry:
Double big news here! First, my Dad got a big promotion. He is now head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation - Barty Crouch's old job. We are absolutely over the moon. This job pays a lot more. Bet Percy is so jealous, the big suck up. I doubt this would have happened without the six of us (although the papers only name you) making Voldemort show himself at the Ministry.
Second, you probably already know about this, but Dad says that Bagman wants me - you heard right, ME - as Keeper on the Hogwarts picked Quidditch team that's going to Elsinore (somewhere in Denmark) for six weeks this summer. There's going to be a North & West Europe regional interscholastic Quidditch camp! Nobody has told me who else is on the team yet, but you have to be tapped for Seeker if there is any justice in the world. Everybody knows how much better you are than anyone at school.
Think about how outstanding it will be, the both of us doing nothing but playing Quidditch for six weeks. If the Muggles give you any trouble, let me know. Fred, George, and I will come over and break you out again. They have product ideas ready for testing on your cousin. Their business is just smashing. They now have their premises in Diagon Alley, and they claim that a Hogsmeade store will be opening soon. They really want you to come for the Hogsmeade grand opening. Even Mum seems to be okay with that now.
I never had a chance to tell you, but I had a meeting with Dumbledore just before going home (I think he saw all the rest of us) and I gave him an earful about keeping you in the dark about things.
Have you seen what the Daily Prophet has been saying about you since Fudge admitted Voldemort was back? You are totally golden now - a real star. Somebody even called you “The Chosen One” this morning.
See you soon.
Ron
Harry frowned. This was the first he had heard of any Quidditch camp. Surely Ron was right. He really was light-years ahead of anyone at Hogwarts as a Seeker. His being the “youngest in 100 years” was not for nothing. Still, as far as he knew, he remained technically banned from playing Quidditch by order of that horrible Dolores Umbridge woman who had briefly seized control of Hogwarts last year. Harry was confident that the ban would be lifted, but just to be sure everything was all right, he decided to write back to Ron straight away - as soon as he took his shower.
Out of the shower in less than five minutes, Harry again put quill to parchment and scratched out quickly:
Dear Ron:
Congratulations, first on your Dad's promotion, also on making the Hogwarts team. Honestly, your letter is the first I have heard of any international Quidditch camp this summer. Can you check with your Dad and make sure that I will be on the team? I am a little worried because I might still be on the banned list.
I cancelled my subscription to the Daily Prophet last year. I have no idea what they write about me, and frankly I could not care less. I am past letting whatever gets published, good or bad, affect me anymore.
Hope to see you very soon for some all out Quidditch!
Harry
Harry threw on some clean clothes - cut off jeans and a bright orange Chudley Cannons T-shirt from Ron. Then he scowled slightly, remembering that he only had that single pair of now sweaty and smelly trainers, and using magic to clean them was forbidden. Dudley was right. He would need new clothes if he engaged in this kind of exercise much longer. “Worry about it later,” he thought, as he pounded down the stairs.
Dudley turned around to face Harry as he came downstairs - and gawked. He managed to choke out, “er … Harry, you can't wear that.”
Why not,” Harry shot back. “I don't have much else.”
“That shirt, it's got pictures of chaps on brooms,” said Dudley.
“So what?” growled Harry.
“They're moving,” responded Dudley, intrigued in spite of himself.
“Oh, right,” muttered Harry, taken aback. “But I don't know how many more Muggle T-shirts I have.”
Harry bounded back up the Dursleys' beige carpeted steps, taking them two at a time. Rummaging through both his drawers and the dregs of his trunk, Harry found a not-too-smelly T-shirt with the logo of the upcoming Olympics in Atlanta. He did not remember having the shirt, nor did he know where Atlanta was. He headed back downstairs, and found his cousin waiting impatiently by the side door.
“Let's go. We're already late,” Dudley said.
They walked for about five minutes to a bus stop. In another five minutes, they were on the bus towards London. After about fifteen minutes more, they disembarked in a distinctly seedier part of town. Dudley decided Harry needed some more clothes right away and took him to an odd shop with an all black décor that was lit primarily by ultraviolet lights. Although a little put off at first by Dudley's stereotyped view about the type of clothing shops that might cater to wizards, Harry found that the store actually had quite a passable selection.
He picked out two black and two blue pairs of jeans, two of them sporting designs made from fake silver studs. He also chose several T-shirts - black, with a pretty good Norwegian Ridgeback likeness in florescent colours; sky blue, decorated with what looked like ancient runes; red, with an intricate Celtic design; and a second black, emblazoned with a wrap-around design of the constellations of the northern hemisphere.
Dudley soon got bored, and told Harry he would be out front trying to reduce the local rodent population. He pulled from his pocket what had to be the biggest slingshot Harry had ever seen. Harry considered telling Dudley to watch out for any rats with silver paws, but thought better of it when he considered the questions that might follow.
Harry had chosen all his clothes under the watchful eye of a pretty shop assistant, but when it came time to pay, Harry went pink. He was embarrassed to tell her that he had no money and needed to get Dudley. When his cousin was ready to pay (“this is repayment for all the birthday gifts I didn't get you”), the girl ducked behind the curtain and an older man came out to the cash register.
It was odd. Harry could have sworn he saw the familiar upward flick of the older man's eyes. The man put all of the clothes in a bag and handed it to Harry, but refused to take Dudley's money, just shaking his head. He tore the sales receipt off the register and threw it in a nearby bin. Dudley hardly needed to be told twice not to look a gift horse in the mouth and turned to leave. Harry glanced at the bin, and in the dim light he saw what looked like the masthead of the Daily Prophet in amongst the wadded up bits of paper, fish and chips leavings, and used polystyrene cups. Harry quickly followed Dudley out the door.
His cousin remarked how strangely the proprietor had acted, but Harry let it pass, purposely limiting himself to monosyllabic grunts. He preferred that Dudley not know that the shopkeeper was probably magical - and had just cut “the great Harry Potter” a break. Because Dudley's funds remained undepleted, the two of them were able to visit a sports shop where Harry selected several pairs of athletic shorts, some socks and a new pair of trainers. The sales assistants in that shop were only too happy to take Dudley's money.
Laden with Harry's new clothes, they walked the remaining couple of blocks to a nondescript three-storey brick building notable mostly for its large skeletal-looking external fire escape. The fire escape was painted bright green, leaving the impression that large insects were clinging all over the front of the building. A large sign reading “Gator's Gym” hung out front, with a smaller one “Tae Kwon Do Studio” underneath. All the ground floor windows, and the doors, were covered in heavy steel mesh to deter burglars and vandals.
Dudley bounded up the front steps and through the double doors in front, which were not locked. He took the steps to the first floor two at a time, so eager was he to get started. Harry followed as best he could, as he was carrying two large bags of clothes. The whole building smelt strongly of sweat and cleaning fluid - the latter undoubtedly used in an unsuccessful attempt to reduce the smell of the former. Dudley stashed Harry's clothes in his locker, took him back down the steps, and gave him the thirty-second tour.
“This is the weight room,” he said, pointing through a door at a collection not only of the sort of barbells Harry expected, but a variety of large machines with various weights, pulleys, cables and benches pointing out at seemingly random angles. Men pushing against weights with their arms or legs occupied several of the benches. They produced the constant clanks of metal striking metal, interspersed with their own grunts. More than anything else, it reminded Harry of a torture chamber. It lacked only the sets of chains and manacles that hung from the ceiling in the office of Hogwarts' caretaker, Argus Filch.
“That's the heavy bag room over there, and this is the speed and free-standing bag room over here. If you feel like exercising your legs you can practice kickboxing either with the free standers if there's nobody else about, or with the mats hung on the wall there in the back. I'll show you how to use the bags in a minute, but most of the time I'm going to be in the ring itself,” Dudley stated proudly, pointing at the spotlit canvas boxing ring at the middle of the biggest room in the gym. “I'm one of the stars here, you know. I have a sparring partner showing up in about half an hour. Let's see if I can scare up a set of gloves small enough to fit you.”
Harry frowned briefly at Dudley's remark about his being small, but looking around the place, he was constrained to agree. Without knowing any better he might have thought that Dudley had fallen in with a bunch of trolls in training. Even though he was forbidden to perform magic out of school, Harry wished he had his wand with him, although once he got into his workout clothes there would be no place to keep it. The only normal-sized person Harry saw in the place was an Asian fellow dressed in a dragon-patterned robe. Harry reckoned he was the karate teacher.
Dudley found some gloves, fitted Harry, and nodded. Then he had Harry hold out both hands in front of him and punched the ends of Harry's gloves rather harder than Harry thought necessary. “What,” Harry exclaimed as he staggered backwards.
“They'll do,” Dudley remarked, with a grin. “That was just a tap.”
“Oi, Big D,” remarked a new arrival, looking as trollish as the rest. “'Oo's the featherweight?”
“Oh, he's just my cousin,” Dudley drawled, considering each word. “He goes to St. Brutus' School for Criminally Insane Boys, but now that it's summer, I'm trying to keep him out of trouble over the holiday. He may be small, but I warn you he's tough. Got some very unusual moves, that one.” Dudley winked at Harry.
Dudley gave Harry a five-minute demonstration of how to work the heavy bag. Then he watched as Harry slugged away for several minutes more, giving occasional pointers. He demonstrated how to use a speed bag, with both hands and then with each hand separately. Harry tried and discovered to his pleasure that he was considerably better at this than with the heavy bag. On the speed bag, he was better able to bring to bear his coordination acquired from playing Quidditch. Dudley showed him how to hit the stand alone without being struck by the bag's recoil, and for a lark showed Harry a couple of kickboxing moves as well.
Finally Dudley instructed Harry on that scary looking universal gym equipment: how it worked, how to increase and decrease the weights, and how Harry could adjust the pads to fit his less than gigantic stature. Dudley also explained the various single-circuit stations, describing how which one provided a workout for what muscle group. In what seemed like almost no time to Harry, a half an hour passed and a loud whistle pierced the air.
“Gotta go,” panted Dudley. “That's my sparring partner. Just make yourself comfortable for the next few hours and work out however you want. There's plenty of power drinks in the fridge in the corner. Don't let yourself dehydrate. It's going to be another scorcher today. If you feel light-headed at all, get one of the drinks pronto. And don't be scared. Nobody's going to take the mickey out of you. I put the word out that you're with me - and that you're a nasty piece of work.”
Uncle Vernon had been right about one thing. Dudley certainly took pride in his status in this gym.
The exercise made Harry feel wonderful. Physical activity had always cleared his mind, and now he could work himself to his heart's content. The heavy bag tired him out, so he had to lay off that after a few minutes. He did find great pleasure in imagining the faces of his various enemies on the stand-alone bag. It hardly seemed plausible to punch out Voldemort, but Harry had no trouble calling up mental images of Bellatrix Lestrange, Sirius' murderer; Professor Umbridge, who banned him from playing Quidditch last term; and best of all Draco Malfoy, his worst enemy among Hogwarts students, and Lucius' son.
The image of Malfoy was the most lasting and lifelike, probably because Harry already had considerable experience in punching him. A fistfight with Malfoy had been the immediate cause of Harry's being banned from playing Quidditch during the prior term. Even if he had never touched Malfoy, however, Harry was convinced that Umbridge would have cooked up some other excuse to throw him off the Gryffindor team.
An hour and a half later, after various workouts and numerous power drinks, a sweaty and exhausted Harry was looking for the loo. There were very few people about in this, the hottest part of the afternoon (the gym lacked air conditioning), and those that were looked fully occupied. The only person who seemed at loose ends at the moment - that karate teacher - had been sitting in a metal folding chair watching him for the last several minutes. Harry supposed that the teacher must not have very many students. Come to think of it, this neighbourhood probably was not home to many people who would be inclined to take karate. It was definitely a part of town partial to fisticuffs.
Harry carefully unlaced and removed his gloves in order to make sure he could retie them. Then he addressed the man, and was surprised when he received a full bow in response. Harry had no idea of the proper way to respond, so in return he ended up making a motion that must have looked part way between a bow and a stagger. It was a bit much, he thought, for directions to the loo. Nevertheless he obtained the urgently needed information.
He was washing his hands when the door creaked open. Harry thought nothing of it, since it was a public loo, until he heard, “Hahli Potta?” pronounced in a questioning, but distinctly Chinese tone of voice. Harry whirled about and went into a catlike crouch, half expecting to be facing the business end of a wand.
There was no such thing.
The karate instructor simply stood in front of him placidly, with both hands out to show that he was unarmed. “Hahli Potta,” he said again, this time as a statement rather than a question.
“Wh, wh, who are you,” stammered Harry, his heart still in his throat and his face flushing warm from the adrenaline rush.
“Ohda of Phoenix,” was the simple reply. The man pulled up the sleeve of his robe and flashed Harry a peek at an amulet on his upper arm that the boy supposed was issued by the Order.
There followed a poignant pause whilst Harry digested this unexpected information. “So I'm still being followed,” he stated flatly.
“Yes and no, Hahli,” came the response. “You are being followed, but that is not why I am here. Since the Dementor attack, I have been watching your cousin when he is not at school. Your presence here is not work, but pleasure for me. Please follow.”
“Wait a minute,” Harry demanded. “If you're with the Order, then you'll understand why I need to do this. Tell me something only an Order member would know.”
“Excellent, Hahli,” came the reply. “How about … recently, you smashed a number of Chairman Dumbadoh's possessions. Only you and he were present, so I know of it only because he spoke of it.”
Harry was embarrassed to recall that incident and even more embarrassed to realise that Dumbledore had mentioned it to others. Nonetheless, it did establish the man's bona fides. “All right, I'll go with you.”
They made their way from the loo into the small rabbit warren of rooms on the ground floor that served as the karate school's premises. “Why is that - who exactly are you, and are you a wizard?” Harry asked questions in jumbled, staccato fashion. Each answer he received seemed to generate about ten new questions.
“I am Kung Meng-tse, but you may address me as Lao Kung. Yes, I am what is considered a wizard in this country. In China I would be considered more of a sorcerer, as I am a teacher rather than a doer. I am pleased because I would be most honored if Hahli Potta, hero of the raid on the Unspeakables, would permit me to show him Chinese defence techniques. Chairman Dumbadoh approves, but only if you first came to me. And now that has happened.” They reached a rather sparsely furnished workout room.
“So…. What can you show me, Lao Kung?” inquired Harry, his voice brightening. Maybe he would get some extra training over the summer after all.
“You have great power,” said the karate wizard, “but you lack focus and concentration. If you gain these attributes, you will be able to do this….”
Following the older man's eyes, Harry noticed Lao Kung eyeing a stack of six bricks in a holder about a foot away from the wall. Harry did not notice the similar stack of bricks against the opposite wall. “Hai!” the karate master screamed, and with a motion so fast Harry could scarcely follow it, he brought the side of his right hand down upon the bricks. Simultaneously, a jet of blue light flashed from his left hand. The bricks struck by his right hand cracked in half and fell to the floor. The bricks struck by the spell from his left hand were pulverised, and the air was soon thick with fine pink powder.
As Harry started to cough, Lao Kung used the Cleansing Charm (“Scourgify”) to clear the air. “Interested?” he asked.
“You bet!” Harry enthused. “What did you just do?”
“My right hand was kung fu - somewhat inaccurately called karate - no magic at all, simply martial arts. The particular aspect of Kung fu was the intensive application of the force of my hand on a specific spot on the top brick. Brick is brittle, and the concentrated force exceeded the strength of the material, causing it to break. At exactly the same time, my left hand was cupped, and I directed a wandless, silent Reductor Curse on an identical stack of bricks, reducing them to powder. Hahli, you already have the force inside you to do such things. What you need is concentration.”
“You can do spells silently, like Dumbledore?” Harry asked.
“I can, and so can you,” Lao Kung replied.
“When can I start, Lao Kung?”
“As far as learning concentration techniques, right now. First, sit like this.” Lao Kung sank gracefully into a lotus position.
Harry winced. “I don't know if I can do that. I think I feel pain just looking at you sitting like that.”
“The thing you must always do is try, Hahli,” smiled Lao Kung.
“OK, here goes nothing,” Harry sighed. He sank awkwardly, and after some intense wriggling managed to get himself into a pretty fair imitation of Lao Kung's lotus. Lao Kung adjusted a knee here and a foot there, and soon Harry was in an acceptable position - although he had no idea whether he would be able to get out of it by himself, or whether he would have any feeling left in his feet when he did.
“You were working very hard with the Muggle equipment Hahli,” spoke Lao Kung in a low monotone. “You cannot work as hard as that without clearing your mind temporarily of everything except your attack upon the equipment. I'd like you to try the same thing now. Close your eyes and concentrate, just as you were concentrating then, but this time think only about concentrating.
“Does it matter what I was concentrating on?” asked Harry. He was a little embarrassed to tell Lao Kung that he had previously been focussed entirely on beating a mental image of Draco Malfoy to a pulp.
“No, the subject matter is of no concern until later. It is the art of concentration with which you must start. Once you learn to concentrate, then we can worry about subject matter. Next, I want you to find a word or short phrase that means something special to you, and that has calming sound when repeated. Can you do that?” asked Lao Kung.
“Yeah, I suppose,” said Harry, rather perplexed. He thought for a while about repetitive phrases with pleasing patterns, before settling upon a spell that Hermione had taught him his first year - the Opening Spell, Alohamora. “Yes, I'm ready now,” Harry said.
Whilst repeating “Alohamora” over and over again to himself, Harry closed his eyes hard and concentrated on how his arms, body and mind had felt as he imagined doing physical harm to Draco Malfoy. To tell the truth, Harry now felt a bit thick and rather silly.
“I sense anger, and some hesitation,” spoke Lao Kung. “That is all right, keep your eyes closed and concentrate. For a first time, you are doing well. Now stop.”
Harry relaxed and opened his eyes. With the relaxation, a feeling of warmth and calm spread slowly up from his legs.
“Now again.”
Harry repeated the process of concentration, repetition, and relaxation several times.
“We will do it one more time now, then I think you will have had enough for your introductory session. But first, a question, are you right handed?”
“Yes, my right hand is my wand hand,” answered Harry.
“This time Hahli, I will do something a little different. I want to see how you react. You will feel a tingle in your right hand whilst you are concentrating. Do not open your eyes. Continue your repetitions, but after you feel the tingle, I want you to try to shift the focus of your concentration gradually from your mind towards your right hand. Say nothing, just refocus your concentration.”
Harry concentrated. He felt a tingle as if his right hand was being exposed to a gentle sprinkle of rain. Keeping his eyes closed, Harry tried to concentrate hard on that feeling, moving the focus of his senses towards his hand.
“Now think about heat - concentrate on your right hand being very hot” - whispered Lao Kung in his ear. “Do not interrupt anything else.”
Harry did as he was told. He concentrated so hard he imagined his face must be bright purple. His effort was rewarded with success. In less than a minute, he smelled the pungent aroma of cedar smoke. His eyes flew open, and he quickly withdrew his right hand. Lao Kung had sprinkled it with sawdust, and the sawdust had started to smolder.
“Very good, Hahli,” smiled Lao Kung. “You cannot doubt now that you have talent for this. You have smelled the results with your own nose. That is all for today. Do you wish to continue?”
“Abso-bloody-lutely,” replied Harry enthusiastically.
“In that case,” instructed Lao Kung, “I want you to use these concentration techniques during your workout as well. No longer try to box, in the sense of having an opponent, but rather try to cleanse your mind. When you work the bags and the stand alone apparatus, try not to think of anything except the sound of your mantra and the rhythm of your body in action. See if you can synchronise the two. Work yourself as hard as you can, but try to think of nothing but you, your rhythm, and the object you are aiming for. Can you do that?”
“I will try my best,” pledged Harry.
Harry worked out a little more with the speed bag and stand alone, trying to concentrate solely on his target. But only a short time later, Dudley came looking for Harry - finished for the day.
“You ready to quit?” mumbled Dudley, toweling off. “Hop in the shower and let's go.”
A few minutes later, they were headed home. Harry was tired, and his hands were full with his clothes, but he was as happy as he had ever been whilst staying with the Dursleys. Suddenly, Dudley put out his arm and signaled him to stop and be quiet.
“Look there,” Dudley said in a hoarse whisper, “crows perched on that wire.”
Harry looked up. “Actually ravens, I think.”
“Whatever,” Dudley replied distractedly, pulling the big Black Widow slingshot out of his jeans. “Let's see if I can plink one.” Dudley picked up a broken piece of brick and fired. He missed, but not by much, and three large black birds took flight raucously. “Missed again, but one day I'll get one.”
After that bit of casual vandalism, they headed back home. On the bus, Harry learnt about Dudley's original exposure to boxing.
“I've been wondering,” he began tentatively, “how you got involved in something like boxing in the first place. You never seemed to have the … the ….”
“Discipline?” Dudley interrupted.
Harry thought for a second, “Yeah, discipline, I guess.”
“You do what you have to do,” Dudley shrugged it off. “I've had a bit of an `anger management' problem,” he made air quotes with his fingers, “for, like, forever.”
“Yeah, tell me about it,” Harry snarked, remembering all the beatings his cousin had given him.
“I know, sorry about all that,” Dudley casually apologised. “I mean I even kicked in my first telly when the Beeb cancelled Doctor Who.”
Harry shrugged uncomprehendingly, since the Dursleys never allowed him to watch television. “You did break loads of stuff, Dudders.”
“Too right,” Dudley agreed. “Anyway by last year, It wasn't by choice at all. I was a bit of a hooligan at Smeltings. And more than a bit of a bully - just like I was to you, actually. I got more than my share of detentions and the like for fighting, and I was threatened with expulsion.”
“Your dad would skin you alive,” Harry observed.
“No shite,” Dudley agreed. “The choice I was offered was between boxing and expulsion. They said I needed an `alternative outlet for anger' or some psychological mumbo-jumbo like that. I didn't like it at first, but damn if I didn't show some talent at something for the first time in my life.”
“That's like me and Quidditch,” Harry observed, finally feeling some empathy for his cousin.
“What?” Dudley replied.
Harry looked around to make sure nobody was listening in. In a lower voice he explained, “Quidditch, that's a sport played on brooms - like the pictures on my shirt. “Flying and playing Quidditch were the first things I ever discovered I could do better than just about everyone else.”
“Sounds about right then,” Dudley replied agreeably. “Anyway, I started to work at it and won some bouts. A few months after those Dementor thingies attacked, I even stopped hanging out with Piers and Gordon. I'd known them for years, but they never changed. I sussed out they were layabouts who weren't likely to help me accomplish anything.”
“What are you shooting for?” Harry asked. He was right chuffed that he would never have to deal with those nasty Muggles again.
“I reckon I might have a chance to be the English heavyweight champ in a few years if I keep at it,” speculated Dudley. “Probably not more than that, though, because then I'd have to go up against all those big n****rs from America.”
Harry reacted to the casual racial slur like a slap in the face, although in retrospect he should have known there was little cause for surprise in Dudley's language. The population of Little Whinging was very white and quite right wing - not BNP, but only for reasons of class, not disagreement.
Still, that kind of prejudice made Harry very uncomfortable. He had seen quite the same thing in the attitudes of many pureblood wizards. “Dudley,” Harry warned archly, “we're getting along better than we ever have before, but if you want that to continue, please keep thoughts like that to yourself. You should know that I've shared my dorm room with a black chap for five years now, the captain of my Quidditch team last term was black, and last year I had a Chinese girlfriend…. For a little while, anyway.”
“Oh … right,” said Dudley blankly. “If you say so. I don't really mean anything by it anyway.” Then he stopped short, finally comprehending what he had just heard. “You…? You had a girlfriend?”
“Well, sort of,” said Harry, “I got a kiss and half of a date.”
“Well I got two dates, but no kisses,” laughed Dudley. For the rest of the bus ride back to Little Whinging they played “Can You Top This” about the inscrutable ways of the female gender.
Upon arrival at number 4 Privet Drive, Harry was exhausted, but a good sized meal, cooked by Aunt Petunia, woke him up. He had what passed for a pleasant conversation with Uncle Vernon about gardening that needed doing, since Dudley took Sundays afternoons off from training.
Harry did not like feeling indebted to Dudley, and meant to pay him back even though Dudley treated the clothes he bought for Harry as a gift. Uncle Vernon agreed to pay Harry five quid for mowing and edging the gardens (front and back) and another three for cleaning out junk from the garage. That night, Harry slept very well. There was nothing like physical exhaustion to keep his mind from wandering back to his grief.
Life at Privet Drive was turning out surprisingly well.
* * * *
Author's Notes: I deliberately describe Ginny as “apparently” escaping with no lasting injury.
Query whether programming the Triwizard Cup to be a two-way Portkey, rather than a single-use version was a mistake. I can see no benefit to Voldemort to the Portkey working a second time to return the user to Hogwarts, unless Voldemort had been planning some sort of immediate attack on the school had everything gone as he had planned at the end of GoF.
Harry's recall of the end of OotP is the first inkling of Hermione now being in a different category from Harry's other friends.
An inkling of the problems Ron will face in the upcoming year.
Q8 is a European gasoline seller; it intentionally sounds like Kuwait, which owns it.
An A-road is a major thorofare in Britain, one step down from a motorway, or dual carriage road - like a U.S. highway (as opposed to an interstate) in America.
A fiver is a five pound note.
Agapanthus is added, as it is mentioned in HBP.
I believe that, by the way Brits calculate, the second storey is the equivalent of the third floor in the U.S.
Fled as quickly as it came, from an obscure Uriah Heep song called Magician's Birthday.
When Harry's emotional, and there's a glow or a spark, look out.
Killed, or worse, expelled - conscious parallelism.
The mushroom analogy is a common one here in SE Pennsylvania, near where a lot of mushrooms are grown.
Ran a comb across his head - from the Beatles Day in Life.
The Chosen One bit is another concession to HBP, something I can live with, since that's one of the few things I anticipated correctly.
I couldn't help mentioning my old home town of Atlanta.
The large machines are what were called Universal Gyms when I played sports thirty years ago in high school. They seem still to be in use, but I don't know what the Brits might call them.
The boxing descriptions are as accurate as I can make it, having never had anything personally to do with the sport.
The Chinese accent - JKR frequently employs accents, most notably with Fleur and Hagrid. Nothing insulting is meant by it. For Lao Kung (Lao means “old” in Chinese and is a respectful form of address), I am only doing accents for proper names, most notably Harry.
Lao Kung is a mix of two of the names of two China's greatest ancient philosophers, Kung Fu-tzu (“Confucius”) and Meng-tse (“Mencius”).
LK uses “Chairman Dumbledore” - a play on Chairman Mao.
I don't know what color the reductor curse is, so I chose blue.
I've added reference to silent spells, since this was important in NBP. Harry will learn this skill over the summer.
Concentration, repetition, and relaxation is a description of common meditation technique, which is what Harry is being taught.
The ravens are not what they seem.
Beeb = BBC; Dr. Who was cancelled in 1989; the TV Dudley kick due to cancellation of his favourite show was present in July, 1991, so it could be a veiled Dr. Who reference.
On top of everything else, the Dursleys are racists - no real surprise.
The BNP/National Front is a small, right wing party in Britain, mostly known for xenophobia
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