Harry Potter and the Magical Tours

The clanging of the bokken filled the training hall. As Shigura attacked him, Harry had to defend himself and simultaneously create a counter-attack.

"In battle," the sensei said every so often, "whenever you spring, strike, hit, parry the enemy's sword, you must cut the enemy in the same movement. If you think only of springing, striking, hitting or parrying without the inner sense of cutting, no damage will be done."

It explained perfectly why, facing Voldemort on the ship, Harry had parried so magnificently without gaining more than a powerful wand. The others had celebrated another defeat of Voldemort, though for himself, it hadn't been - not really.

Still, no reason to complain, not now. His edginess was gone, there was a new quality in his movements, more so in his anticipation of Shigura's attacks. Was his haragei, the sense of feeling your opponent's intention, improving? Perhaps, although a simpler explanation would hint at the fraction of a second won for Harry's own reaction due to his better concentration.

Of course, as the exercises with his sensei circled through a very limited number of strikes, parries, and counter-strikes, Harry could defend himself only because his teacher restricted his attacks to this repertoire. Even so, Harry felt very satisfied about this -

Wham! Shigura's bokken hit him full-force in the ribs - a tiny moment's lack of concentration had been enough.

Harry jumped sideways and backward, rolled over, and came up. He performed the ritsurei - the bow before the sensei.

"Shimata." - I made a mistake. It was a bit of an apology, but mainly a shameful confession.

Shigura nodded. "As long as your senses are with this bokken, your progress is appropriate, Ha-ri."

Harry blushed. The sensei's face was expressionless, but still, his choice of words had carried the message clearly enough, even without any unusual intonation.

Well, measured by western conventions, there was no privacy in this house, not with those thin walls and those shoji. Oiled paper didn't block sound much. Privacy was a concept of the mind, dependent on other people's cooperation, on a layer of formalities rather than isolating walls or distances. Nobody pretended not to hear, they just treated their knowledge as part of his privacy.

This short lack of concentration earned him another embarrassement later that day, on the table in the recreation room, when Tamiko said, "Turn, Ha-ri. I have to heal this bruise."

He turned. A second later, he reacted to her, strongly and uncontrollably.

Tamiko smiled. "This isn't the time for your next lesson, Ha-ri. Maybe we should use a fundoshi." A fundoshi was the Japanese version of a loin-cloth.

He blushed. "Maybe."

As if in response, Tamiko raised her wand. "Or a kobudera."

A spell? "No! Please don't."

The thought alone was sufficient to solve the problem, although he felt seriously tempted to ask her for this particular spell.

* * *

Harry had finished his evening game of Go with Shigura. Admiring the stones, he asked, "Sensei - we always play Muggle Go. Is there a reason?"

"Why should we play Wizard Go, Ha-ri?"

Of course - a question as an answer. In some cultures, this would be considered impolite.

"When Cho taught me the game, and the wizard version, her argument was that the ability to move little pieces across small distances might be helpful."

"Maybe so." The Japanese looked innocent. "Anywhere in particular?"

"She mentioned door locks, and how to unlock them. It was during Lupin's imprisonment."

Shigura rose, making Harry wish he'd acquired the same grace in rising from the lotus position. "Follow me, Ha-ri."

Harry headed after the sensei,- surprised to see a staircase, a basement, then a cell with a door made of iron bars.

Shigura ordered him to enter the cell. The next second, Harry heard the key turning in the lock.

"This is your opportunity ... Play Go, Ha-ri." The Zen master disappeared from view.

After a moment, Harry's stunned mind recovered, only to boil in raging fury. A few minutes from now, he had expected to be in his room, awaiting the arrival of another sensei. But now ...

He directed his violent urge toward the bars, the lock, the hinges, his mind screaming in rage.

Nothing. All he managed to do was to tense his muscles.

For a moment, he felt like crying. So close ... If he couldn't free himself, the earliest time he might expect the sensei back was in the morning - maybe not even then.

The cell went black.

Damn! He hadn't even inspected the lock.

His anger returned, directed toward the sensei, toward himself - asking stupid questions, not using opportunities when they were offered ... Well, one offer he hadn't denied, which was why now every minute in the cell felt like ultimate torture.

Use Zen, Harry.

Ai uchi - fight your opponent the way he's fighting you; defeat him with his own attack ... The absence of wrath.

Harry sank down to the lotus position. Breathing deeply, slowly, he calmed his emotions and cleared his mind.

His opponent ... was it the sensei, or this lock which refused to open? Neither, or both: the lock didn't object to being opened, nor had it objected to closing when the sensei had turned the key.

The key ...

He had no wand, but maybe ...

He concentrated deeply. "Accio key!"

An instant later, he heard a bang, then a lighter sound. Something had dropped to the floor upstairs, behind the other door.

Harry suppressed a wave of desperation and concentrated on the good news of this result: he'd managed the spell without his wand and had moved the key. It was just another door that had defeated him.

So he had to open the lock without the key.

Another moment of deep breathing.

His mind recalled the scene he'd watched in stunned shock - Shigura turning the key, the metallic sound ... Harry tasted the sound, examined it, tracked down its particular rhythm, a short oily smack, ending in a click. So the lock wasn't rusty, and would move easily, if only ...

Think of it like a railroad track, Harry - it only goes from here to there.

Think of the target spot as if indented, as the only place where the movement can go -

Click!

Disbelieving, Harry stared into the blackness. An instant later, he was on his feet, suddenly able to rise from the lotus position in a single fluid motion. He stepped forward and felt the bar.

Without resisting, the door swung outward.

Tamiko was waiting in his room, unsurprised. "I'm flattered, Ha-ri. Such a strong desire - it's very stimulating."

Clever sensei.

"Still, this is a lesson, Ha-ri, no matter how pleasurable. Yesterday, it was just an introduction. Today, we'll build the basics. You'll learn to undress me."

"Oh ... nothing else?"

Tamiko laughed. "Begin at the beginning, and go on till you come to the end."

He did.

After all, she hadn't said, "... then stop."

* * *

Entering the garden, Harry sat down opposite his sensei. These conversations were one of the highlights of the day, although lately they had found hard competition. Or maybe soft, depending on -

Seemingly without introduction, Shigura said, "Let me tell you a tale, Ha-ri. This is no koan, although it takes place in a Zen cloister."

A moment before, Harry wouldn't have known what to ask. Now, he had a question - how had the sensei recognized his state?

"This cloister hosted a small library with precious parchment rolls. One roll in particular was famous among the experts, considered as an early document written by Bodhidharma, the first Zen master. In the eyes of the Zen monks as well as in those of connaisseurs, the roll was counted as a priceless treasure."

Harry remembered Ollivander's essay, musing idly whether this Bodhidharma's words had encountered a similar event to render them outdated.

"Every now and then, visitors came to the cloister to have a look at the document. The abbot would give permission quite reluctantly, and only after examining the visitors thoroughly for their seriousness. Then, one day, the cloister had three visitors at the same time, all of them very interested in the document, and of course only in the wisdom that had to be expected from the master's words. Or so they said."

Shigura smiled. "However, the abbot was fully aware that all three of those visitors were driven by simple greed. They thought of the document as a collector's item, conspirating against each other, tiptoeing through the cloister corridors at night, raising mischief, hoping for a chance to steal the scroll in the uproar and disappear with their trophy."

Thieves in the night ... In the abbot's place, Harry would have known what to do: kick them through the door and down a staircase.

"The abbot decided to solve the problem in the best tradition of Zen, following the principles of bujutsu. He used ai uchi."

So the abbot fought these nogoods the way they tried to trick him. Except Harry had no idea how, and this was a bit disquieting because the sensei didn't continue. Any second now, he would ask Harry a question -

"He gathered all three visitors in the hall. There, he announced that the unmistakable competition between them, as understandable as it seemed, did not fit well to the cloister's quest for contemplation, and that he had taken measures to re-establish quietness and dignity."

Here it comes, thought Harry, maybe a fight between ...

"Then he gave each of them a copy of the document, assuring those were exact replicas, with all the wisdom any reader might find in them. At these words, the abbot held up the original roll - and then, watched by his horrified visitors, he threw it into the fire that was burning in a large pan. 'This,' he said, 'will ensure that never again Bodhidharma's words can become the object of greed and mistrust'."

After a pause, Shigura asked, "What do you think about the abbot's solution, Ha-ri?"

In the first moments, Harry had only thought about Ron's copy quill, and whether the poor monks who'd created the replicas had complained as much as Ron during the months before the quill finally arrived. Feeling the sensei's expectant eyes resting on him, Harry said hastily, "Er - it's really ai uchi, isn't it? They said it's just for the words, and they got the words."

When Shigura didn't reply, he added, "I was just trying to map this to the idea of moving the shadow. To me, it looks as if the abbot found a way to counter the real strategy by countering the shadow strategy."

"Does the solution satisfy you, Ha-ri?"

Another one of these disquieting questions. Harry decided to stick to the truth. "Well, sensei, it's very elegant, and doesn't compromise anyone - only, to be honest, I wouldn't have minded to see those visitors a bit compromised by themselves ... A few pushs and kicks, something like that."

Shigura smiled. "The absence of wrath - you might learn it in time, and of course it's the purpose of a story to let the listener feel as upset as possible."

Something in his teacher's voice made Harry ask, "And you, sensei? Does the solution satisfy you?"

Shigura glanced at Nagini, lying not far away. With a rueful grin, he said, "I admire the abbot's elegance. Only why couldn't he have found a way to save the original?"

* * *

Despite his growing skill, Harry felt the challenges in his lessons increase. This was true during the day, still more at night. Even knowing he would be rewarded, he found it difficult to muster the required equivalent of balance in these exercises.

In the training hall and outside, Shigura's occasional blows and pushes no longer sent him flying, but made him stumble at the most. His balance had improved, maybe his centre of weight had moved as well - considering the other lessons, Harry wouldn't be surprised - and undeniably, his sense of anticipation, his haragei, was growing.

In his room, Tamiko could push him off easily, although more often it wasn't her movements but his own young, undisciplined self-control that sent him flying, leaving her behind.

Then she would comfort him, immediately using the opportunity to teach him more, astonishing him with alternative paths toward the clouds and the rain he wouldn't have dreamed of - at least not for a long time.

Invariably, and thanks to his young, undisciplined body, those alterations brought him back on track shortly afterwards, enabling him to resume the journey together with her.

Tamiko's own self-control was highly developed, and she used it skillfully in their encounters. Harry's progress could be measured in the amount she had to invest, and this amount, she admitted, was growing - slowly, but steadily.

While Harry felt no urge to beat his sensei in any discipline, even if this thought - like with Go - might be within a realistic scope, it was Tamiko's self-control which stipulated an ascending desire to break it, to change roles, to be the one who still held balance while she was trembling incontrollably, moaning ... Alas, any attempt so far bore its defeat in itself - the thought alone, and the first signs, were enough to push him dangerously close to the limits of his own control.

* * *

Harry sat with the sensei in the garden, asking questions. Afterwards, he would find a place in the forest to work on another haiku.

"Sensei," he said, "I heard about the great Japanese haiku poet, Matsuo Basho. His first name and yours are the same."

"Yes." Shigura showed some amusement. "Isn't there a great man in your own country's history whose first name is Ha-ri?"

"Probably so, sensei, although right now there's none that crosses my mind."

"My parents might have been influenced, hoping for poetry from their son" - Shigura grinned - "while my own preferences seem in conflict with the serenity of haikus and other forms. I'll show you a poem I detected in your country's literature - I found it very intriguing."

Shigura went into the house and came back after a moment. He gave Harry a sheet of paper. "Here - for me, it seemed very Zen-like."

Harry took it and read:

Harry laughed. "Yes, it's definitely no haiku, while I can see what you mean with Zen-like."

"But then I came across the rest - here."

Harry read the second piece.

"And this, Ha-ri, is of course the opposite of Zen." Shigura sighed. "Would that I never had seen it."

* * *

Outside, under the trees, Shihiko kept Harry's company as she did most often when he had to work on a haiku. Today, however, she was the reason why he had trouble concentrating on his task. He was thinking about her.

Did she travel with the sensei to the clouds and the rain? Probably. He corrected himself: after the days spent in this culture, in this house, he knew, the answer was yes of course. Anything else would seem unnatural.

In another time, in another life, he might have been tempted to find out for sure, perhaps to listen for sounds in the night. But he was here studying - among other things - Zen, which replaced knowledge with feeling and curiosity with empathy, here in Japan where privacy was sacred. And, besides - listening for sounds in the night required keeping quiet by oneself.

Shihiko was older than Tamiko, a bit smaller, maybe not quite as slim. How did she look without ... It was a pity how these kimonos hid details thoroughly, or maybe he simply wasn't trained to judge a figure under those garments, certainly not as much as with wizard robes. Small wonder - for some time, there hadn't been much of an opportunity, nor any need.

He had never seen Shihiko using a wand. Was she a witch, after all? She had to be, in this household; probably used it quite a lot in the kitchen. In another house, in another life, strolling into the kitchen would have been completely natural. Not here.

"How is it to be without a wand, Ha-ri?"

The lotus position proved very helpful when trying not to jump. Shihiko's question came so close to his own thoughts that for a horrible instant, Harry had the feeling she could listen to what he was thinking.

"Er - quite normal, Shihiko ... Seeing it under the table always reminds me that there's still a task waiting."

"From your story, I know its core is phoenix feather. I was admiring the wood but couldn't find out what it is."

"It's holly - except for the new top, of course. I don't know what that is, maybe blackthorn."

"Mine is boxthorn - it is supposed to be perfect for a woman, though it always feels a bit sticky."

So she was a witch - and if she couldn't read minds, her skill in reading body language was a dangerously good replacement.

"Boxwood," explained Shihiko, "is a famous export article of this area. A boxwood comb is the best comb of the world - that would be a nice present ..."

For whom?

"... to bring home. I don't think you could find it anywhere else."

This conversation felt very disquieting. Not the words themselves, and maybe the messages between the lines existed only in his imagination. Still, if he had learned anything here, then it was listening to inaudible sounds, unspoken words.

"I have put your mind off the topic of haikus, rather than helping you." Shihiko smiled. "But perhaps your concentration wasn't that deep anyway."

He bowed, admitting she was true.

"Think about dragons, Ha-ri. Dragons are the rulers of the sky, while tigers rule the earth - it's a good topic for a beginner in haikus ... A kind of dualism - like day and night."

Was she really talking about haikus?

Shihiko rose. "I'll leave you alone, Ha-ri - so you're no longer distracted."

* * *

It wasn't correct to say Harry had trouble writing haikus. They formed in his mind, not quite by themselves, not necessarily at the times he was ordered to do so. His only difficulty was that they weren't intended for public knowledge.

As a consequence, he didn't know if they were good. But he could live with this lack of feedback - much better, actually, than with the thought that someone might read them. This was the reason why, after they had formed in his mind, he wrote them down, to see them written once, only to burn the pieces immediately afterwards. Rice paper was suited to such tasks considerably better than parchment.

For him, the thought of a haiku which grew into form, to fade in a flame moments later, had its own poetry. There was little doubt that other people in the house would agree, and would maybe see it even as a step toward shibumi - the ultimate refinement - if they had been offered a chance to know.

But they hadn't.

At least as far as he knew. In this house, however ...

And yet, after the last flame had faded, the haiku was not gone, not entirely, or not always. Some of them remained, like the picture of the vase, the instant before the sensei's stick had sent it shattering. Like this one:

It had formed in his mind after some lessons with his second sensei in which alternative paths toward the clouds and the rain had been explored, less familiar but enticing nonetheless, if not to say breathtaking. One path in particular had left its trace, the one Tamiko called the way of Yin and Yang.

At the end of that lesson, Harry had asked, "Why's this called the way of Yin and Yang? I mean, from what I understand about Yin and Yang, wouldn't the name fit to all we're doing here?"

"Certainly, my diligent sennin. In a wider sense it's true, only that the name is used only for this - exercise. If you look at the symbol of Yin and Yang, you know why."

Harry wasn't familiar with the symbol.

Tamiko thought for a moment. "I'll show you - but maybe I can explain right now. You know French, Ha-ri, don't you?"

"Oui, Tamiko."

"The French have their own term for it. It's not as poetic as Yin and Yang, but also very imaginative. They call it soixante-neuf."

* * *

Harry entered the room, finding Shigura and Shihiko as expected. The tea ceremony would start any moment, now that he'd arrived.

The Zen Master looked at him. "Ha-ri, would you bring Nagini in here?"

Harry bowed, turned, and headed back to his room. When he returned with the snake, Shihiko was gone and had taken the earthenware can with her. There were two cups on the table, steam rising from them.

"Put her down, Ha-ri."

He placed Nagini on the next tatami.

"One of these two cups," said the Zen master, "contains a deadly potion - so strong it works immediately, strong enough to kill with the first sip."

A déjà-vu - almost.

"Would you please serve us tea, Ha-ri? These cups."

This was why he had been ordered to fetch Nagini - the snake who could discern truth from falsehood, now laying calmly and silently on the tatami. So it was true.

Harry examined the cups. They looked identical - no, there was a tiny difference in the delicate patterns, seen only by the trained eye. But his eye was trained after his weeks in this house.

So the sensei knew which cup held the deadly potion.

Harry felt no need to ask - the potion would be tasteless, would be undetectable by smell. Which meant - when serving the two cups, a random chance would determine who'd receive the deadly one.

Totally random?

He looked again - the two cups stood at equal distance from his own position, not indicating any preference, maybe except for the tiny aspect of left and right for a right-handed person.

But then, for weeks, he had exercised techniques to reduce the importance of left and right in the art of bujutsu.

What if the deadly cup turned out his own?

He wouldn't know. Drinking the tea would kill him. But he knew that Shigura wouldn't let this happen. He might have been a Death Eater, or even Voldemort's right hand, and it wouldn't matter. He wasn't going to let Harry die in his own house.

So even if Harry had no idea how the Zen master might prevent such an accident, this possibility felt safe.

What if it came the other way around?

Would Shigura refuse to drink? Unlikely - the sensei expected him to find a solution, that was the purpose of this test. That was the only explanation - otherwise, this deadly charade made no sense at all.

Harry stepped forward, took both cups, offered one of them to the Zen Master, who accepted it.

"Sit down, Ha-ri."

He sat down, crossed his legs to the lotus position, the cup steady in his hands, untrembling.

Shigura held the cup ready, waiting for Harry to drink.

Harry moved the cup to his lips - a quiet movement, without haste, giving time to follow, to act. His nostrils flared at the bitter scent, familiar now after his weeks in this house.

He sipped.

Strong, hot, bitter - as expected, nothing else. He gulped, breathed deeply after the hot rush ... so he was alive.

Looking up, he saw the sensei's arm move the cup to the lips, a movement as quiet as Harry's own, as steady, as fluid - it would have reached its destination long before he'd found the time to jump, to reach Shigura, to throw the cup out of his hand.

The cup was before Shigura's face, supported by fingers and thumb of one hand. Now it touched his lower lip.

When the sensei's lips parted, Harry sent his silent scream.

As if hit by an invisible stick, the cup went flying, shattered, splashing tea through the air. The drops fell to the floor, followed by the splinters of what, moments before, had been a delicate cup.

The Zen master looked at Harry, a dark fire glowing in his eyes. "We'll need some new tatamis, Ha-ri - even the dried remnants are highly dangerous. But first, we need another cup and more tea."

* * *

With only days left in Harry's alloted four weeks, Shigura ordered Harry to follow him into the big room. They sat down as they would for the tea ceremony, even though it was early afternoon.

"Ha-ri, your wand is lying under this table, waiting for the day when you take it again."

Harry bowed. How much more graceful this felt than a remark such as "Yes, sensei."

"When will this day come?"

Harry's eyes widened - his only reaction to a question which, some weeks earlier, would have received a jump and a blurt of protest. Still, compared to what he was trying to achieve, even this involuntary movement seemed too much.

Thinking about the question, Harry knew this game had been lost before it had started. He said, "I don't know, sensei. I'm waiting for the day when we start training my control of this new wand."

"This is a very Zen-like answer, Ha-ri, although you may not be aware. That day passed weeks ago."

This time, it felt hard to suppress a "But ..."

"Where's the way, Ha-ri?"

Not knowing better, Harry answered, "Just before my eyes, sensei."

Shigura smiled. "Exactly."

Oh, how wonderful it would be to ask ten stupid questions in rapid succession. Harry felt seriously tempted and had to use all his self-control to weigh his words. "How good is my control now, sensei?"

"I don't know, Ha-ri. You're the only one to answer this question."

He would bite his tongue before -

"Call your wand, Ha-ri."

For an instant, Harry was about to rise. Just in time, he registered the exact nature of the Zen master's words.

"Accio wand."

In a graceful arc, the wand moved up, passed the edge of the table plate, and reached his waiting hand.

Shigura said, "One of the disciplines I didn't mention in the beginning is iaijutsu - the art of quick drawing. Originally, it was intended to draw a sword, more specifically the dai-katana - but obviously it suits a wizard as much as a samurai. And you just practiced this art, Ha-ri, sufficiently to practice it further by yourself."

Harry examined his wand, which was unchanged - the familiar grey, seamlessly changing to black after eleven inches.

Shihiko appeared. She placed a vase on the desk, then left the room again.

Harry recognized it immediately - a twin of the vase that had lost its delicate shape from the vigorous blow of a bamboo stick.

Shigura said, "It's the last of its kind, Ha-ri. Please move it to the window-sill."

There was no question that Harry was being ordered to do it with his wand rather than with his hands - with a wand suited to blow a ship to pieces, not to move an irreplacable piece of art across a few tatamis.

Removing the block top didn't occur as an option either. Doing so would have felt worse than whacking the vase against the wall. Harry felt sweat trickling down his temples.

Think of it as a railroad track, Harry. Think of the destination like dented, as the only place where it fits.

And don't forget, Harry - it's so delicate ...

He pointed. "Mobilivas."

The vase rose - trembling, then steadying, it floated through the room. Close to the window-sill it slowed down, inching forward, downward ... With a faint thud, it came to rest on the marble ledge.

He exhaled deeply.

Shigura said, "Your wand is a mere tool, Ha-ri. It helps you to focus - basically, that's all. It's not the wand that holds the power, it's the wizard. The magic of the wand is only good to package this power, to give it the proper direction - but only as good as the wizard's own magic."

"What about this new top, sensei? When I remove it, my wand has another effect than with its new size."

"Is this true, Ha-ri?"

Well, it was correct to say so, wasn't it?

"Within the scope of your magical power," explained Shigura, "your wand does exactly what it's ordered to do, Ha-ri. After gaining the additional power from your enemy, you examined your wand, and you found the black top. Then you found out how to remove it. Believing you were limited to your former power, you issued spells and found them to work as expected. Then you applied the top again, and naturally, your own belief reactivated the full power ... The new top is a nice little joke - very Zen-like, I'd say."

"Then ... without the top, I could use the same power - provided I stop thinking in terms of with and without?"

"Correct, Ha-ri ... and also true."

Shigura grinned. "You should try it, just as a final test, to end this particular training. But please - don't do it inside this house."

* * *

A large moon hung outside, perfectly round, illuminating the room with a light that showed every detail, shaped without colours.

Werewolf time.

Time for losing control.

Harry knelt before his futon, determined to do the opposite. Power and control, he had learned today, was in the belief - nowhere else. Time to prove it.

Before him, outstretched, was Tamiko, the object of his desire, the soft touchstone of his control, moving slightly under his administrations.

His lips scanned her skin, caressing soft arcs, harder peaks, tracing back, passing the gentle curve of her belly, pulsing under his touch.

He paused, then continued, going deeper, creeping over a landscape of mounds, slopes, valleys. A musky scent ... He inhaled, then blew his breath through this damp forest.

He heard her own breath quickening.

His fingers trailed the lines, following borders, barely touching, making a promise only to leave it unfulfilled - a tap here, a fleeting touch there.

He felt her thigh twist and heard a gentle moan. "Come, Ha-ri."

Control. "Not yet."

His lips wandered away, down her thighs, her calves, and reached her feet. He moved to the end of the futon, parted her legs and knelt between her ankles, his hands taking them and setting them apart, moving upward, stroking with more pressure on their way back.

A sigh, a husky whisper. "I didn't order you to torture me ..."

"No ... Turn, so you're protected."

A moan of protest - aside from the central zones, Tamiko's most sensitive spots were all on her back. But she obeyed.

He closed her legs, crawled forward, let his lips move all the way up to her neck. His weight was resting on his hands, another exercise he wouldn't have mastered weeks ago.

Sinking down, he felt his hardness stroke her buttocks, rest in the soft crevice. Another moan escaped her, but his own reaction told him the effect went both ways.

He raised himself a bit, then took her arms and moved them over her head, exposing the sensitive armpits, stroking them, feeling mounds underneath, simultaneously pressing them toward each other.

Her breath came steadily, although in long gusts.

With his weight again on his hands, he let his lips trace back down to the hollows of her knees.

Parting her legs again, he knelt down, inching forward, spreading her more fully. His hands took her hips, pulled her closer, careful to keep his own flesh out of the critical range that would make him lose control quickly.

Tamiko was on knees and elbows. Her breath came raggedly; he felt the trembling in her thighs.

His hands found her earlobes, stroked down, passed the neck, and turned around, finding her globes, caressing them, supporting them, only to let go and move further, along the ribs and the pulsing flanks.

He reached the inside of her thighs, gently pulling, widening. His fingers traced the wet rift, passed - for a fleeting, torturing instant - the silky nup, then encircled it, following swollen outlines around and around. He felt sharp twists in her vibrating body, heard a choked gasp, a sob, his own pained breath; all his senses thrilled, wavering close to the point of no return.

With a last parting pull, his hands clenched, his nails digging into her thighs.

At the same instant, his flesh tilted up, hitting her wet core.

As involuntarily as it had been, it sent her over the edge. She spasmed beneath him, jerking, and issued a throaty sound ...

With the remnants of his control, he thrust himself into her, felt stopped from a contraction, went deeper the next instant, felt another contraction.

Only seconds after Tamiko, he reached the clouds and the rain.

Lying at her side, he let his fingers play along the lines of moonlight and shadows, feeling the stickiness of her dried sweat.

"Today you've mastered your wand, Ha-ri ... With tip and all." Her voice was low, teasing.

"Yes, Tamiko. Or maybe it was the moon - it affects everyone differently. Or maybe just the moonlight ..."

Her hand brushed lightly over his hair. Trailing his scar with a finger, she said, "Then, my sennin, your lessons should be over. What is there more to learn?"

Was she serious? Two days left - who'd be so accurate ...

He examined her face. "Maybe we have to find out whether it works even without full moon."

"It won't change much within two days."

"No, but for a werewolf, it's just this one night. Who knows what will happen tomorrow?"

"So we should explore your wolfish nature, Ha-ri? Or maybe, in a final lesson, we should change roles, and I'll do to you what tonight you did to me?"

Her mocking tone, the thought of such a lesson, and her mocking fingers had the inevitable effect. He felt himself hardening again.

Her fingers were playing harder, although no longer on his forehead. "Does your control span beyond the lesson, Ha-ri?"

He glided over her, into her, and heard her surprised gasp, her breath which was quickly gaining speed. Fortunately, Tamiko required considerably more time to return from the heights of sensation, an advantage he was going to use.

"We'll find out."

* * *

Harry was sitting in the big room, opposite the sensei as usual. It would be their last tea. They were alone - Harry wasn't even sure whether he might see Shihiko once more before leaving.

He wouldn't see Tamiko once more. Not today, or ever. She had made it very clear the night before.

"This is our last time together, Ha-ri. You won't see me tomorrow - if you ever return, you won't find me again. Even this night is almost beyond the boundaries of our agreement - which doesn't raise a conflict for me but for your own codex. To make it acceptable in your western ethics, I'll give you a final lesson - exactly what I promised yesterday. There's one rule - if you move, or try to grab me, I'll leave you on the spot."

And she had presented her skill in torturing, not using anything other than her body. Unfortunately, or fortunately for him, a body as young as his own could be tortured only up to a point, before it found the only possible release. Still, it had been very informative, if not to say fruitful.

Harry looked at Shigura. "Sensei, I feel an enormous on, after the four weeks with you."

The Zen master's eyes were sparkling. Harry could feel the unspoken question, Only with me?

"And you don't know how to balance out, Ha-ri?"

"No, sensei."

"Then it's true Zen, Ha-ri ... the riddle that cannot be solved."

As much as the Zen master seemed to have fun, for Harry, the thought felt depressing. The idea of sending a present - any present - afterwards was simply ridiculous, not to mention money. What else could he do?

"Your face shows me, Ha-ri - you have adapted to Japanese culture so much that the thought seems unbearable. Not a common state of ethics among westerners ..."

He wanted to protest - he wasn't the only westerner feeling that way.

"... although I know, at Hogwarts you're not alone with this thinking."

Harry calmed down.

"Your karma already established a giri - a duty on your shoulders, Ha-ri. It's heavy enough, and it's right to say the four weeks have been part of this giri. Therefore" - Shigura's eyes were sparkling again - "and to make your heart not sink deeper than necessary when leaving, your on will be balanced after you have achieved your goal. Destroy kyoki - the master of darkness whom you call Voldemort. Then you'll be free."

Harry's ritsurei was flawless.

The last four weeks had been a beginning. How to continue? He would be able to train, to exercise, to meditate, to keep balance - still, without a sensei, he would lose track.

"Sensei - will there be more training for me, aside from what I can do by myself?"

"I'll answer with another Japanese proverb, Ha-ri. Talk about next year, and the devil laughs."

Shigura was enjoying himself considerably more than Harry. "Where's the way, Ha-ri?"

Damn! "Just before my eyes, sensei."

"So follow it."

Harry stood up, bowed, and was rewarded with a slight bow. He walked into the room which had been his own for the last weeks, although not for him alone. He draped Nagini around his body and took his suitcase.

Walking out, he saw Shihiko standing in a doorframe. He bowed. "Domo arigato, Shihiko ... Sayonara."

She smiled. "Good luck for your journey, Ha-ri."

Downhill, reaching the street, he found a riksha waiting, and was not surprised - the signaling systems within, to, and from the house were the riddles he hadn't solved a bit, although they were certainly not Zen.

On the ferry, his thoughts moved ahead. Fukuoka, Osaka, Tokyo - he had to do some shopping, to find some garments he'd learned to value, like kimonos, and feathery light getas - sandals - more small Go sets, big Go sets, a boxwood comb, maybe several of them - after all, exclusivity was just a state of mind, wasn't it?

He would leave Japan at the evening, to arrive in London around noon.

From his seat on the aft deck, he looked up to realize the coastline of Iki had already disappeared beyond the horizon.