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Harry awoke with a gasp, sheets twisted around his legs and heart hammering against his ribs. The dream had been so vivid—Hermione's cinnamon scent filling his nostrils, her soft moans echoing in his ears, her legs wrapped around his waist as he drove into her again and again. Her voice calling his name had seemed so real that for a moment, he expected to find her beside him.
"Bloody hell," he muttered, running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair.
The gray light of dawn filtered through his bedroom window, casting long shadows across the floor. Harry groaned as he shifted, uncomfortably aware of his body's enthusiastic response to the dream. This was the third morning in a row he'd woken up like this, each dream more explicit than the last.
"This isn't me," he whispered to the empty room, though a traitorous voice in the back of his mind wondered if perhaps it was simply a part of him he'd never known before.
Harry reached for his glasses on the nightstand, knocking over a glass of water in the process. He swore under his breath as water cascaded across the wooden surface and dripped onto the floor. When he tried to grab the glass, it shattered between his fingers.
"Brilliant. Just brilliant," he muttered.
Harry slid out of bed and padded to his desk, where his potions case sat next to his calendar. The date was circled in red—tomorrow night, full moon. He ran his fingers over the mark, a cold knot forming in his stomach. Madam Pomfrey's words echoed in his mind: "You won't transform completely, Mr. Potter, but you will... experience certain effects."
Harry flipped open the potion case, counting the remaining vials. Four left. He'd have to be careful.
"Just get through tomorrow night," he told himself, selecting the vial labeled "Morning Moderation Mixture." The amber liquid tasted of licorice and something metallic, making him grimace as he swallowed it down.
A cooling sensation spread through his limbs, and the urgent pressure in his groin subsided to a manageable level. Harry exhaled slowly, feeling his heartbeat return to normal.
His room, which had seemed suffocatingly small upon waking, now felt merely cramped. Harry moved to his wardrobe, careful not to grip the handle too firmly. He'd already broken it twice and repaired it with spellotape, earning suspicious glares from Uncle Vernon.
As he dressed for his morning run, Harry caught sight of himself in the small mirror on the wardrobe door. His transformation was progressing daily now. His shoulders seemed broader than they had been just yesterday, the muscles of his chest more defined.
He traced the silver scars across his chest, remembering the moment that had changed everything. Sometimes he wondered what would have happened if Lupin had bitten rather than scratched him. Would he be facing a complete transformation tomorrow night? The thought made him shudder.
A loud bang on his bedroom door jolted Harry from his thoughts.
"Boy! Are you up yet?" Uncle Vernon's voice was gruff but lacked its usual aggressive edge.
"Yes, Uncle Vernon," Harry replied, keeping his voice deliberately calm and measured.
There was a pause, as if Vernon was surprised by the civil response. "Well... good. Your aunt wants to know if you'll be in for breakfast."
Harry raised an eyebrow. This was new—being asked about his breakfast preferences instead of simply being expected to cook it.
"I'll get something after my run," Harry said, pulling on a t-shirt that now fit considerably more snugly across his chest.
Another pause. "You're still doing that running nonsense, then?"
"Every morning."
"Right. Well..." Vernon cleared his throat awkwardly. "There's been talk in the neighborhood. Mrs. Polkiss mentioned seeing you running past her house at dawn. Says you look... different."
Harry suppressed a smile. "Do I?"
"Don't get smart with me, boy," Vernon snapped, though his tone lacked conviction. "Just... keep to yourself, will you? Don't want the neighbors getting more curious than they already are."
"Of course, Uncle Vernon," Harry replied mildly. "Wouldn't want to disturb the neighbors."
He heard his uncle mutter something unintelligible before lumbering back down the hallway. The floorboards creaked under Vernon's substantial weight, each step as distinct to Harry's enhanced hearing as drumbeats.
Harry finished dressing and knelt beside his bed, retrieving his journal from beneath the loose floorboard. He flipped to a fresh page and wrote:
July 12 - One day until full moon
Morning symptoms: Vivid dreams again (H). Physical response upon waking. Broke a glass without trying. Senses heightened—can track Uncle Vernon's movements through the house by sound alone.
Mood: Tense. Irritable. Finding it difficult to stay focused on anything other than... physical urges. Taking Morning Moderation Mixture helped somewhat. Four doses remaining.
Harry paused, pen hovering over the page. There was something else, something he'd noticed but been reluctant to acknowledge. After a moment's hesitation, he added:
Note: Physical development continuing. Muscle mass increasing daily without corresponding exercise. Noticed this morning that I seem to be larger in ALL aspects of my anatomy. Uncertain if this is related to approaching full moon or permanent change.
His face burned as he wrote the last part, but it seemed important to document everything. Hermione would have insisted on thorough record-keeping, though he cringed at the thought of her ever reading these particular observations.
Harry closed the journal and returned it to its hiding place. Standing, he stretched his arms over his head, feeling the pleasant pull of muscles. Despite the anxiety churning in his gut about tomorrow night, he couldn't deny a certain thrill at the physical changes his body was undergoing.
"One day at a time," he murmured, slipping his wand into the pocket of his running shorts—never far from reach, even in Muggle Little Whinging.
As he headed downstairs, Harry caught the scent of bacon frying and his stomach growled appreciatively. Perhaps he would have breakfast after all. He'd need his strength for whatever tomorrow might bring.
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9¾
Little Whinging stretched before Harry like a cage built of identical houses and manicured lawns. The monotony that had once depressed him now provided a strange comfort—a predictable backdrop against which he could measure his own unpredictable changes. His feet pounded the pavement in steady rhythm, each stride carrying him farther than it would have just weeks ago.
Six miles in, and he was barely winded.
The morning sun had burned away the last wisps of fog as Harry turned onto Magnolia Crescent, a route he'd been avoiding because it passed the Polkiss home. Piers Polkiss had been Dudley's crony since primary school, holding Harry's arms behind his back while Dudley pummeled him. But Piers was away at some summer camp according to Dudley, and Harry was tired of planning his routes around avoiding people.
He'd just cleared the corner when a flash of gold caught his eye. Not Snitch-gold, but something equally captivating—sunlight glinting off pale blonde hair. A girl knelt in the front garden of number sixteen, trowel in hand, digging into the dark soil around a row of rosebushes. Harry slowed his pace automatically, his runner's rhythm faltering.
The girl—woman, really—looked to be about seventeen, with her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail and denim shorts that revealed long, tanned legs. She wore a simple white tank top that clung to her curves in a way that made Harry's mouth go suddenly dry. Even from thirty feet away, his enhanced vision caught details that would have escaped him before—a light dusting of freckles across her shoulders, a smudge of dirt on her left cheek, a small birthmark just below her right ear.
As he drew closer, his other senses kicked in. Her scent hit him like a physical force—a mixture of strawberry shampoo, sun-warmed skin, and something distinctly female that made his wolf-adjacent instincts surge to attention. Harry's steps faltered, and he nearly tripped over his own feet.
The sound made her look up, blue eyes widening slightly as she noticed him. Her heartbeat quickened—Harry could actually hear it, a rapid flutter like bird wings.
"Morning," Harry managed, his voice rougher than he intended. He slowed to a stop, pretending to adjust his shoelace while he composed himself.
"Morning," she replied, her voice carrying a hint of wariness. Her eyes traveled from his face down to his chest, where his sweat-dampened t-shirt clung to his newly developed muscles, then quickly back up again. A flush crept across her cheeks.
Harry straightened, offering what he hoped was a non-threatening smile, he was sure he had seen her before. "You're Emily, right? Piers's sister?"
She nodded, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "And you're Harry Potter." It wasn't a question. "The troublemaker from Stonewall High."
Harry almost laughed. So that was the cover story the Dursleys had been spreading—that he attended the local comprehensive school instead of a "special institution for incurably criminal boys."
"Is that what they're saying about me?" he asked, genuinely curious.
Emily shrugged, returning to her gardening with studied nonchalance. "That and other things. Mostly from my brother and your cousin. Neither of whom I consider reliable sources of information."
"Smart of you," Harry said, taking a step closer. His nostrils flared involuntarily, drawing in more of her scent. "They're not exactly known for their honesty."
She glanced up at him again, this time with a flicker of interest in her blue eyes. "So you're not a juvenile delinquent who sets fire to trash bins for fun?"
Harry chuckled. "Only on bank holidays, and even then, only the really posh bins."
A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. She sat back on her heels, studying him more openly. "You don't look like what they described either."
"Oh?" Harry raised an eyebrow, acutely aware of how different he must appear from the skinny, undernourished boy who had left for Hogwarts in September.
"Piers said you were scrawny. Called you a specky git." Emily's eyes traveled down his torso again, more deliberately this time. "But you're not... that is..." She trailed off, the flush returning to her cheeks.
"I've been working out," Harry said simply, deciding it was close enough to the truth. "Running helps clear my head."
Emily nodded, then turned to reach for a large bag of mulch. As she attempted to drag it closer, it caught on the edge of a paving stone. She tugged harder, succeeding only in tearing the corner of the bag, sending cascades of dark mulch spilling onto the lawn.
"Oh, for—" she muttered, exasperation clear in her voice.
"Let me help," Harry offered, crossing the small garden in two strides.
"You don't have to—"
But Harry had already lifted the fifty-pound bag as if it weighed nothing, careful to moderate his strength so it didn't appear completely effortless. "Where do you want it?"
Emily blinked, momentarily speechless. "Uh... just there, by the roses. I'm mulching the whole bed."
Harry positioned the bag where she indicated, then used his fingernail to tear a neat opening along the top seam.
"You're stronger than you look," Emily observed, handing him a spare pair of gardening gloves. "And I thought you looked pretty strong to begin with."
Harry accepted the gloves with a small smile, pulling them on before scooping a handful of mulch. "Like I said, been working out. What about you? Gardening doesn't seem like a typical teenage girl hobby."
Emily snorted, a surprisingly inelegant sound from such a pretty girl. "Oh please. And what would a 'typical teenage girl hobby' be? Painting my nails and gossiping about boys?"
Harry winced. "Sorry, that came out wrong. I just meant... it's nice. That you're doing this, I mean."
Her expression softened slightly. "It's fine. And it's not really a hobby—more like forced labor. Mum said I could borrow the car tonight if I finished the front garden by this afternoon."
Harry spread mulch around the base of a particularly thorny rosebush, careful not to damage the delicate stems. "Big plans for tonight, then?"
"There's a film I've been wanting to see at the cinema in town. One of those American summer blockbusters with too many explosions." She paused, glancing sideways at him. "Do you like films?"
The question caught Harry off guard. His experience with Muggle entertainment was limited to whatever Dudley watched on television, which was mostly violent action films and reality shows.
"Sure," he said, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. "Who doesn't?"
Emily smiled, a genuine one this time that transformed her pretty face into something that made Harry's breath catch. "Well, if you're not busy later... I mean, it's just a thought, but you could come along. As thanks for helping with the garden."
Harry's heart rate kicked up a notch. Was she asking him on a date? He hadn't expected this turn of events, and for a moment, all he could think about was how close the full moon was, how his control was already slipping, how being in a dark cinema with her scent surrounding him might be more than he could handle.
But then again, would staying alone in his room be any better?
"I'd like that," he heard himself say. "What time?"
"Film starts at seven. Meet me here around six-thirty?" Her voice was casual, but Harry could detect the slight uptick in her heartbeat again.
"Six-thirty it is." He spread the last handful of mulch, then peeled off the gardening gloves. "I should finish my run. Don't want to keep you from earning your car privileges."
Emily laughed, standing up and brushing dirt from her knees. The movement drew Harry's eyes downward before he forced them back up to her face, hoping she hadn't noticed.
"Thanks for the help, Harry Potter. Maybe you're not such a troublemaker after all."
Harry grinned, already backing away because standing still was becoming increasingly difficult. His body was reacting to her in ways that would soon become very obvious in his running shorts.
"Don't be too sure," he called over his shoulder. "I might just be on my best behavior."
Her laughter followed him as he picked up his pace, breaking into a sprint as he rounded the corner. The cool morning air did little to calm the heat building under his skin. Harry pushed himself harder, his feet barely seeming to touch the ground as he flew through the quiet streets.
A date. He had a date with a pretty Muggle girl. A date the night before the full moon, when his control was at its most tenuous.
"Brilliant idea, Potter," he muttered to himself, increasing his speed until the houses blurred around him. "Absolutely brilliant."
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❾¾
Harry returned from his run drenched in sweat, having pushed himself harder and farther than ever before. Twelve miles in total, the last four at a sprint that would have left Olympic athletes gasping. Yet his breathing had already returned to normal by the time he reached the sanctuary of his small bedroom.
"Still not enough," he muttered, raking fingers through his sweat-dampened hair.
The encounter with Emily had left him unsettled, his body thrumming with an energy that felt foreign and yet strangely natural. Harry stripped off his sodden t-shirt and tossed it into the laundry basket, then caught sight of himself in the wardrobe mirror.
Harry dropped to the floor and assumed the lotus position Lupin had taught him, back straight, palms resting on his knees. He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, trying to recapture the calm detachment his former professor had described.
"The key, Harry," Lupin had explained during one of their private lessons, "is understanding that our urges don't define us. They're simply... suggestions from a primitive part of our brain. We can acknowledge them without acting on them."
Easy for Lupin to say. He'd had years to practice.
Harry inhaled deeply through his nose, held for a count of seven, then released the breath through his mouth for eight counts. His racing thoughts began to slow, the tension in his muscles gradually uncoiling.
Five minutes passed. Then ten. Just as Harry felt himself approaching something like tranquility, a soft tapping at his window shattered his concentration.
A small brown owl hovered outside, a letter clutched in its beak. Harry recognized it immediately—the owl Sirius had sent to Ron at the end of last term. He rose fluidly to his feet and opened the window, allowing the tiny messenger to flutter inside and deposit its burden on his desk.
The familiar handwriting made his heart leap and sink simultaneously. Hermione.
Harry hesitated before breaking the seal. Her letters had become increasingly difficult to read—not because of their content, but because of the thoughts they provoked. Thoughts of her scent, her touch, the softness of her lips against his cheek...
"Stop it," he commanded himself firmly, forcing his attention to the parchment.
Dear Harry,
I hope this letter finds you well, or as well as can be expected under the circumstances. I've been researching extensively, and while information on partial lycanthropy is frustratingly scarce, I've found several accounts that might prove helpful.
Most importantly, all sources agree that isolation exacerbates symptoms during the full moon phase. Is there any way you could arrange to have someone with you tomorrow night? Not the Dursleys, obviously, but perhaps Mrs. Figg? I know she's a Squib, and while she couldn't perform magic if needed, she might at least provide a calming presence.
Professor Lupin mentioned in his last letter (yes, we've been corresponding about your condition) that physical exertion often helps manage the restlessness. I hope you're continuing your running regimen.
Please write back soon and let me know how you're coping. I worry about you being alone through this.
Love from,
Hermione
P.S. I've convinced my parents to let me visit Ron at the Burrow next week. We're both hoping you might join us there for the remainder of the summer. Mrs. Weasley has already spoken to Dumbledore about it.
Harry reread the letter twice, guilt churning in his stomach. Hermione was working so hard to help him, and how did he repay her? By having erotic dreams about her. Some friend he was.
He pulled a fresh piece of parchment from his desk drawer and began to compose his reply, carefully editing out anything that might worry her.
Dear Hermione,
Thanks for your research. You're right about exercise helping—I'm running daily and doing strength training. No need to worry about tomorrow night. I've got plenty of Pomfrey's potion left, and I've been practicing the meditation techniques Lupin taught me.
Things with the Dursleys are surprisingly tolerable. They're mostly avoiding me, which suits me fine.
The Burrow sounds brilliant. Let me know when, and I'll make arrangements to meet you there.
Take care,
Harry
He sealed the letter and gave it to the waiting owl, watching it disappear into the afternoon sky before turning to his journal. Harry flipped it open to a fresh page and began to write:
July 12 – Afternoon
Ran 12 miles this morning. Met Emily Polkiss (Piers's sister) and agreed to see a film with her tonight. Probably a terrible idea given the moon phase, but staying alone in my room might be worse.
Symptoms intensifying: heightened sense of smell, can hear heartbeats, constant awareness of female presence. Meditation helped temporarily.
Current concern: control during tonight's... date? Is it a date? Whatever it is, need to maintain normal human behavior. No supernatural strength, no commenting on her scent, definitely no glowing eyes.
Note to self: Take another potion before leaving. Bring a backup dose.
Harry closed the journal and slid it back into its hiding place. A glance at his watch told him he had three hours before meeting Emily—time enough to shower, choose clothes, and fortify his defenses against his increasing lupine urges.
The shower helped clear his head, hot water sluicing away sweat and tension. As steam filled the small bathroom, Harry leaned his forehead against the cool tile and confronted the guilt gnawing at him.
Was it wrong to go out with Emily when he couldn't stop dreaming about Hermione? Was it fair to Emily, given what tomorrow might bring? Was it safe for either of them?
"It's just a film," he told his reflection in the fogged mirror. "Two hours in public, then home. No risk, no complications."
Yet even as he said it, Harry knew he was lying to himself. The attraction he'd felt in Emily's presence had been overwhelming, primal in a way that had nothing to do with normal teenage hormones. And tomorrow was the full moon.
Back in his room, Harry surveyed the meager contents of his wardrobe with uncharacteristic attention. He finally selected a dark green t-shirt that Hermione once said brought out his eyes, and the least shabby pair of jeans he owned. They fit differently now, snug across thighs that had developed powerful new muscles.
Harry checked his appearance one last time before reaching for the potion case. Three vials remained. He selected one labeled "Evening Equilibrium" and downed it in a single swallow, grimacing at the bitter taste.
As the calming effect spread through his system, Harry established firm rules for the evening ahead:
One: No displays of supernatural strength or speed.
Two: No mentioning anything about magic, Hogwarts, or his condition.
Three: No matter how good she smelled, no burying his face in her neck like some sort of animal.
Four: Keep a respectful distance at all times.
Five: Home by midnight, alone.
"Just a normal bloke on a normal date," Harry murmured, pocketing his wand and the spare potion vial. "Nothing to worry about."
How hard could that be?
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❾¾
The evening sun cast a golden glow over Little Whinging as Harry made his way to the Polkiss house. He arrived five minutes early, his enhanced hearing picking up the soft sounds of Emily moving around inside—water running, closet door closing, the gentle pad of bare feet across carpet. Harry waited on the pavement, hands in his pockets, heart thudding with nervous anticipation.
At precisely six-thirty, the front door opened. Harry's breath caught in his throat. Emily had traded her gardening clothes for a light summer dress that floated around her knees, her blonde hair loose around her shoulders.
"Hi," she said, a shy smile playing across her lips. "You're punctual."
"One of my few virtues," Harry replied, returning her smile while fighting to keep his gaze on her face rather than the curves her dress accentuated.
Emily locked the door behind her and dropped the key into a small purse. "I thought we might walk through the park on the way to the bus stop. It's nicer than going around by the main road."
Harry nodded, falling into step beside her. "Lead the way."
They walked in companionable silence for a few minutes, the evening air warm against their skin. Harry was acutely aware of her presence beside him—the rhythm of her steps, the subtle shift of fabric against skin, the steady beat of her heart. He forced himself to focus on the sunset instead, the way it painted the clouds in shades of pink and gold.
"So," Emily said finally, "mysterious Harry Potter. Where do you go to school? Really, I mean. Not whatever nonsense my brother's been spreading."
Harry had prepared for this question. "Boarding school in Scotland. It's... specialized. For students with particular aptitudes."
"Like a gifted program?" Emily glanced at him with renewed interest.
"Something like that," Harry hedged. "It was my parents' school too, so I was enrolled at birth."
Emily nodded, processing this information. "That explains why no one sees you most of the year. Piers said you disappeared to some reform school for juvenile delinquents."
Harry laughed. "Do I seem like a juvenile delinquent to you?"
She studied him, blue eyes appraising. "No. But you don't seem like an ordinary schoolboy either. There's something... different about you."
"Different how?"
Emily shrugged, her bare shoulder brushing against his arm. "I don't know. You seem... older somehow. Like you've seen things most people haven't."
"Maybe I have," he said softly, then quickly changed the subject. "What about you? Any exciting plans after school?"
Emily seemed to sense his deflection but didn't press the issue. "University, hopefully. I want to study biology. Plants, specifically—hence the gardening. It's not just to earn car privileges."
"A botanist? That's brilliant," Harry said, genuinely impressed. The only student he knew with a genuine interest in plants was Neville.
They had reached the small park that separated the residential area from Little Whinging's modest town center. The space was nearly empty, save for a young mother pushing a toddler on a swing and an elderly man walking a small dog. Emily led Harry toward a bench beneath an ancient oak tree, its spreading branches casting dappled shadows across the grass.
As they sat down, Harry noticed the distance she left between them—not so far as to be unfriendly, but enough to maintain a proper boundary. He was simultaneously disappointed and relieved.
"What about you?" Emily asked. "Any grand plans for the future? Or is it all top secret like your school?"
There was a teasing note in her voice that made Harry smile despite the weight of the question. What was his future? If Voldemort returned, as Dumbledore believed he would, Harry's future might be very short indeed.
"I haven't really thought that far ahead," he admitted. "I used to think I might like to be a police officer—" sort of like magical law enforcement, he almost said—"but lately I'm not so sure."
"Because of what happened at the end of term?" Emily asked, her voice softening. When Harry looked at her in surprise, she explained, "I overheard my mum talking to Mrs. Figg. Something about you coming home early and looking ill. Mrs. Figg seemed worried."
Harry made a mental note to be more careful around Arabella Figg. He'd had no idea she was reporting back to the neighborhood gossip network.
"There was an... incident," Harry said carefully. "A teacher who wasn't what he seemed. It made me question a few things."
Emily nodded as if this vague explanation made perfect sense. "I get that. My chemistry teacher last year turned out to be growing marijuana in the school greenhouse. Completely changed my view of authority figures."
Harry laughed, the tension broken. "Not quite the same thing, but I see your point."
The orange glow of the setting sun painted long shadows across the park grass as Harry and Emily settled into their conversation.
"So you're telling me," Emily said, leaning forward with mock seriousness, "that your school actually has houses? Like, what, you're sorted into different dormitories based on your personality?"
Harry struggled to keep his expression neutral. "Something like that. It's an old tradition."
"And which house are you in? Let me guess—" She tapped her finger against her chin thoughtfully. "The brooding mysterious one?"
Harry laughed, relaxing against the bench. "We're called Gryffindor, actually. Supposed to be for the brave."
"Brave, hmm?" Emily raised an eyebrow, studying him with renewed interest. "Have you done anything particularly brave lately, Harry Potter?"
Images flashed through his mind—facing the basilisk, casting his Patronus against a hundred Dementors, protecting his friends from werewolf-Lupin. He settled for a half-truth.
"I play a sport at school that involves a lot of high-flying action. Some might call that brave."
"Or stupid," Emily countered with a grin. "I prefer keeping my feet firmly on the ground, thank you very much."
"What about you?" Harry asked, eager to steer the conversation away from magical sports. "Any hidden talents I should know about?"
Emily tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, a gesture Harry was starting to find endearing. "I play violin. Been taking lessons since I was six."
"Are you any good?" Harry asked, genuinely curious.
"Absolutely terrible," she replied with a completely straight face, then broke into a laugh at Harry's expression. "I'm joking! I'm actually first chair in the county youth orchestra. My mother proudly tells every neighbor within hearing distance, much to my eternal embarrassment."
"I'd like to hear you play sometime," Harry said, surprising himself with the sincerity of the statement.
Emily's cheeks flushed slightly. "Maybe. If you stick around." She pulled one knee up to her chest, wrapping her arms around it in a casual pose that somehow made her look both younger and more mature simultaneously. "Your turn. Hidden talent?"
Harry considered. "I'm good at... getting into trouble and then out of it again."
"A useful life skill," Emily nodded approvingly. "Though I suspect there's more to you than that."
A comfortable silence fell between them as they watched a group of starlings wheel against the darkening sky.
"Can I ask you something potentially offensive?" Emily said suddenly, turning to face him fully.
Harry tensed slightly. "I... suppose?"
"Those clothes you're wearing," she gestured toward his jeans and t-shirt, "they fit you properly. But everything I've seen you wearing before looks like it was made for someone three times your size. Why is that?"
The question caught Harry off guard. He'd become so accustomed to Dudley's hand-me-downs that he rarely thought about how they must appear to others.
"They're my cousin's old things," he admitted, fiddling with the hem of his t-shirt—one of the few items the Dursleys had actually purchased in his size after his growth spurt became impossible to ignore. "My aunt and uncle don't... they're not big on spending money on me."
Emily's brow furrowed. "That's rubbish. From what I've seen of your cousin, he's built like a baby rhinoceros. You must be swimming in his clothes."
"Was swimming," Harry corrected, unable to suppress a small smile at her description of Dudley. "I've... filled out a bit recently."
"I've noticed," Emily said, then immediately looked mortified at her own boldness. To cover her embarrassment, she quickly changed the subject. "You should see my school uniform—now that's truly awful clothing. Pleated tartan skirts that make us all look like we're auditioning for bagpipe lessons."
Harry chuckled at the image. "Who designs these things anyway?"
"Some old pervert, probably," Emily said with an exaggerated eye roll. "Someone who gets a thrill from seeing teenage girls in knee socks and pleated skirts. It's archaic."
"At least you don't have to wear robes," Harry said, then silently cursed himself for the slip.
Emily raised her eyebrows. "Robes? Like graduation robes?"
"Sort of," Harry hedged. "For... special ceremonies and such. Very traditional school."
"Sounds properly stuffy," Emily wrinkled her nose. "Our headmaster's bad enough with his tweed jackets and leather elbow patches. I can't imagine him in full ceremonial robes."
The conversation flowed easily between them, jumping from school to music to films. Emily's opinions were strong and often delivered with a biting wit that made Harry laugh more than he had in months.
"Absolutely not," she was saying, her hands animated as she argued her point. "The sequel was a complete betrayal of the original character's arc. It's like the writers didn't even watch the first film!"
"I wouldn't know," Harry admitted. "I don't get to see many films."
Emily stared at him incredulously. "You're joking. What do you do for fun then?"
Harry thought about flying on his Firebolt, the rush of wind against his face as he dove for the Snitch. "Sports, mostly. And hanging out with my friends."
"What are they like? Your friends?"
"There's Ron," Harry said, smiling at the thought of his lanky, loyal best mate. "He's brilliant at chess, terrible at schoolwork, and has five older brothers who've all left their mark on the school in some way. And then there's Hermione—"
"Hermione?" Emily interrupted, a slight change in her tone. "That's an unusual name."
"She's an unusual person," Harry replied, affection evident in his voice. "Smartest wi—I mean, smartest person in our year. Probably the whole school. Reads constantly. Has an answer for everything."
"Sounds like you're quite fond of her," Emily observed, studying his face with new interest.
"She's my best friend," Harry said quickly. "Both she and Ron. They stick by me, even when things get... complicated."
"Complicated?" Emily echoed. "Like when you disappear from school mysteriously, or when you come back early looking ill?"
Harry shifted uncomfortably, unsure how much neighborhood gossip had reached her. "Something like that."
A mischievous smile spread across Emily's face, clearly trying to lighten the mood. "Want to hear something terrible I did once? Promise not to judge me?"
"I solemnly swear," Harry replied, relieved at the change of subject.
Emily leaned closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "When I was twelve, Piers read my diary. The whole thing—including the part where I wrote about my first kiss with Danny Matthews behind the school bike shed."
"What did you do?" Harry asked, already anticipating something spectacular from the gleam in her eye.
"I waited until he was at football practice," Emily said, her voice taking on a dramatic quality. "Then I went into his room, gathered all his precious Star Wars action figures—he had dozens, all perfectly arranged on special stands—and took them to the garden."
Harry's eyes widened. "You didn't."
"I did," she confirmed with a wicked grin. "I arranged all the Storm Troopers in a circle, doused them with my dad's lighter fluid, and set them on fire. Just the Storm Troopers, mind you. I left Darth Vader alone because he is already burned."
The mental image was so unexpected and so perfectly delivered that Harry burst out laughing. "You did what?"
"Set them on fire," Emily repeated, clearly enjoying his reaction. "Just a small fire, and only the Storm Troopers. You should have heard his scream when he found the melted remains. Mum grounded me for a month, but it was worth it."
"Remind me never to cross you," Harry said, still chuckling.
"Oh, you should be very afraid," she teased, tossing her hair over her shoulder with exaggerated menace. The movement sent a fresh wave of her perfume toward him, and Harry's laughter died in his throat as something primal stirred in response.
The sun had nearly set now, twilight bleeding into dusk. Harry felt the subtle shift in his body that had become familiar over the past few days—heightened awareness, sharpened senses, a humming tension beneath his skin. Even with the potion in his system, his control felt more tenuous than it had that morning.
Emily seemed to notice the change in his demeanor. "Are you alright? You went quiet suddenly."
"Just remembered we should probably head toward the bus stop if we want to make the seven o'clock film," Harry said, rising to his feet perhaps too quickly.
As Emily stood, the heel of her sandal caught in a crack in the pavement. She stumbled forward with a small cry, arms flailing as she lost her balance. Harry's reflexes kicked in before he could think—one moment she was falling, the next she was secured against his chest, his arms around her waist.
"Oh!" Emily gasped, looking up at him with wide eyes. "That was... You move incredibly fast."
Harry realized his mistake instantly. No normal fourteen-year-old should have reflexes that quick. "Quidditch reflexes," he said without thinking, then mentally kicked himself. "I mean, sports. At school. Lots of... reflex training."
Emily didn't seem to notice his slip, too distracted by their sudden proximity. Her hands rested against his chest, and Harry was acutely aware of how easily he could feel her heartbeat now—racing like a trapped bird. Her pupils had dilated, nearly eclipsing the blue of her irises, and her lips had parted slightly.
"Thank you," she whispered, making no move to pull away.
Harry knew he should step back, reinstate the proper distance between them. But his body refused to obey, his arms still encircling her waist, his senses overwhelmed by her closeness.
"We should..." he began, his voice rougher than he intended.
"Yes," Emily agreed, though neither moved.
Finally, Emily took a small step backward, breaking the spell. Harry's arms fell to his sides, though his skin still tingled where she had touched him.
"About that bus," she said, a slight tremor in her voice. She glanced at her watch and frowned. "Actually, I think we've missed it. The next one isn't for another hour."
Harry ran a hand through his hair, still struggling to regain his composure. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you miss your film."
Emily bit her lower lip, a gesture that drew Harry's attention to her mouth. "It's okay. Actually... I have another idea." She hesitated, then continued in a rush, "My parents are away for the weekend. We could go back to mine, watch a DVD instead? I've got plenty of films, and it would be more comfortable than the cinema anyway."
Harry knew he should decline. Every rule he'd set for himself earlier screamed at him to make an excuse, go home, lock himself in his room until the full moon passed.
Instead, he heard himself say, "I'd like that."
Emily's smile was like the sunrise after a long night. "Good. That's... good." She held out her hand, a gesture both innocent and daring. "Shall we?"
Harry looked at her outstretched hand, then at the darkening sky where the first stars were beginning to appear. In less than twenty-four hours, the full moon would rise. He should be cautious, responsible, safe.
He took her hand.
"Lead the way," he said.
Night
The walk back to Emily's house passed in a haze of anticipation, their hands occasionally brushing against each other, each contact sending electric currents up Harry's arm. Streetlamps flickered to life as they turned onto Magnolia Crescent, casting pools of golden light that illuminated Emily's profile in fleeting glimpses.
"Here we are," Emily said, her voice slightly breathless as she unlocked the front door. "Home sweet home. Parents won't be back until Sunday evening."
Harry followed her inside, immediately enveloped by the concentrated essence of her scent that permeated the house. His enhanced senses cataloged every detail—lavender furniture polish, the lingering aroma of that morning's toast, and underneath it all, Emily's distinctive strawberry-vanilla fragrance.
"Living room's through here," she said, leading him into a comfortably furnished space dominated by a large television and shelves of DVDs. "What kind of films do you like? Action? Comedy?"
Harry realized he had no frame of reference beyond the few films he'd glimpsed when the Dursleys weren't shooing him from the room. "Whatever you'd recommend," he said, settling onto the sofa as Emily knelt before the DVD collection.
"How about this one?" She held up a case. "It's an American action film. Lots of explosions, minimal plot—perfect for not really watching."
The implication in her tone made Harry's pulse quicken. He nodded, suddenly finding words difficult to form.
Emily inserted the disc and dimmed the lights before joining him on the sofa. Unlike at the park, she sat close enough that their thighs touched, the warmth of her body radiating through the thin fabric of her summer dress.
The film began with a dramatic car chase, but Harry could barely focus on the screen.
Twenty minutes into the film, neither of them could pretend they were watching anymore. Emily turned slightly toward him, her blue eyes reflecting the flickering light from the television.
"Harry," she said softly, "I don't normally do this."
"Do what?" he asked, though he knew exactly what she meant.
"Invite boys I barely know back to my empty house," she clarified, a nervous smile playing across her lips. "There's something about you, though. Something... I can't explain it."
Harry felt like he should stop this, it somehow it didn't felt fair towards her.
Instead, he found himself leaning closer. "I feel it too."
The first brush of her lips against his was tentative, questioning. Harry had expected to feel nervous—this was, after all, his first real kiss. Thoughts of Hermione had crept into his dreams. But now, with Emily's lips gently pressing against his, all insecurity vanished beneath a wave of instinctual confidence.
Harry raised a hand to cup her cheek, deepening the kiss with a boldness that surprised him. Emily made a small sound of approval, her lips parting to grant him entry. The taste of her—mint and something sweeter—flooded his senses, making his head swim.
When they finally broke apart, Emily's eyes were wide, her pupils dilated. "Wow," she breathed. "You're... good at that."
Harry smiled, feeling a rush of pride that had nothing to do with his human self and everything to do with the predator stirring beneath his skin. "So are you."
This time when their lips met, there was nothing tentative about it. The kiss was hungry, demanding, his hand sliding from her cheek to tangle in her blonde hair. Emily shifted closer, her fingers trailing up his arm to his shoulder, then around to the nape of his neck.
The explosive soundtrack of the forgotten film provided a dramatic backdrop as their kisses grew more urgent. Emily's tongue danced with his, her breathing becoming as ragged as his own. When she pulled back to catch her breath, her lips were swollen, her cheeks flushed.
"I should probably stop this right now," she whispered, though her body language suggested the opposite intention.
"Probably," Harry agreed, equally insincere.
Emily laughed softly, the sound sending a pleasant shiver down his spine. "But I don't want to."
"Neither do I."
Her hands found the hem of his t-shirt, tugging it upward. "Can I?"
Harry nodded, raising his arms to help her remove the garment. Emily's breath caught as she took in the sight of his torso—the defined muscles, the scars that cut across his chest.
"My God, Harry," she murmured, tracing the silvery marks with gentle fingers. "What happened to you?"
For a moment, Harry froze, realizing he had no plausible explanation for werewolf claw marks. "Training accident," he said finally. "At school."
Emily seemed to accept this, too captivated by the rest of him to question further. "You're... not what I expected," she admitted, hands exploring the contours of his chest with obvious appreciation.
Harry found himself smiling. "Disappointed?"
"Are you kidding?" Emily laughed, taking his hand and placing it on her waist. "Definitely not disappointed."
His fingers tightened instinctively, drawing her closer until she was practically in his lap. The thin fabric of her dress did little to conceal the warmth of her body as she pressed against him.
Their lips met again, more urgent now. Harry felt a growing boldness, his hands roaming from her waist to her back, then lower to the curve of her hips. Emily encouraged him with small sounds of pleasure, her own hands exploring his shoulders and chest.
"Should we go upstairs?" she whispered against his lips.
Harry hesitated, knowing this was his last chance to make the responsible choice. The moon wasn't yet at its fullest, but its influence was undeniable, stirring something wild and hungry inside him.
"Only if you're sure," he managed, fighting to keep his voice steady.
Emily answered by standing and holding out her hand. Harry took it, allowing her to lead him up the stairs to her bedroom—a surprisingly understated space with pale blue walls and a single poster of a violin player Harry didn't recognize.
In the center of the room stood a double bed with a white duvet, illuminated by the moonlight streaming through the window. Emily closed the door behind them, then turned to face Harry with a mixture of nervousness and determination.
"I should tell you," she said, fingers playing with the hem of her dress, "I've only done this once before. With my ex-boyfriend. It was... okay, I guess. But not great."
Harry's heart pounded in his chest. He should confess his own inexperience, but something deeper, stopped him. Instead, he stepped forward, closing the distance between them with newfound confidence.
"Let me try to improve on 'okay,'" he said, his voice lower than usual.
Emily's lips curved into a smile that was both shy and inviting. "I'd like that."
Harry kissed her again, his hands finding the thin straps of her dress and sliding them down her shoulders. The garment fell to her waist, revealing a simple white bra that contrasted beautifully with her sun-kissed skin. Emily shivered slightly, though whether from the cool air or anticipation, Harry couldn't tell.
"You're beautiful," he told her, meaning it. Her body was slender but curved in all the right places, her breasts pushing against the fabric of her bra in a way that made his mouth go dry.
Emily reached behind her back and unhooked the clasp. The bra fell away, revealing perfect C-cup breasts with pale pink nipples that hardened under his gaze. Harry's enhanced vision could see every detail even in the dimly lit room—the light dusting of freckles across her chest, the quick rise and fall of her breathing, the pulse beating rapidly at the base of her throat.
"Your turn," Emily said softly, reaching for the button of his jeans.
Harry helped her, kicking off his trainers and stepping out of his jeans until he stood before her in just his boxers. His arousal was obvious, straining against the fabric in a way that made Emily's eyes widen slightly.
"Oh," she whispered, a new note in her voice—anticipation mingled with a touch of apprehension.
Harry pulled her close, wanting to reassure her. The feeling of her bare breasts against his chest sent a jolt of pleasure through him, her nipples hard against his skin. He kissed her deeply, one hand cradling the back of her head while the other explored the curve of her waist, the small of her back, the roundness of her bottom.
Emily seemed to melt against him, her initial nervousness replaced by growing desire. She pushed his boxers down, gasping against his mouth as his erection sprang free.
"Harry," she breathed, pulling back to look down between them. "You're... bigger than I expected."
Harry never really knew if he was big or small, the Dursleys had never allowed him any dirty magazines, and he never asked if what he had was small, average or big.
Emily's slender fingers wrapped around his shaft, exploring his length with curious strokes. "Nine inches at least," she murmured, almost to herself. Then, looking up at him with dilated pupils, she added, "Lucky me."
The touch of her hand nearly undid Harry's control. He groaned, his hips jerking forward involuntarily. Emily smiled, clearly pleased by his reaction, and grew bolder in her exploration—tracing the veins along his shaft, circling the sensitive head with her thumb, cupping his testicles with gentle pressure.
"Like this?" she asked, increasing her pace slightly.
"Yes," Harry managed, his voice strangled. "God, yes."
Emily's dress still hung around her waist. Harry pushed it down over her hips, leaving her in nothing but simple white cotton panties. He guided her backward until her legs hit the edge of the bed, then lowered her gently onto the mattress.
For a moment, he simply looked at her—blonde hair spread across the pillow, breasts rising and falling with rapid breaths, long legs parted invitingly.
"Harry," Emily whispered, holding out her arms. "Come here."
He joined her on the bed, hovering above her, supported on his forearms. The kiss he gave her was deeper, hungrier than before, his tongue claiming her mouth with growing dominance. Emily responded eagerly, her hands roaming across his back, nails lightly scraping his skin in a way that sent shivers down his spine.
"Can I touch you?" he asked, trailing kisses along her jaw to the sensitive spot below her ear.
"Please," she breathed.
Harry's hand moved to cup her breast, thumb brushing over the hardened nipple. Emily arched into his touch, a soft moan escaping her lips. Encouraged, he lowered his head to replace his thumb with his mouth, sucking gently at first, then with increasing pressure.
"Oh," Emily gasped, her fingers tangling in his hair. "That feels... Harry, that's so good."
He lavished attention on both breasts, alternating between gentle caresses and more insistent pressure, learning what made her breath catch and what made her moan. His free hand traveled down her stomach, tracing circles on the soft skin before dipping beneath the waistband of her panties.
When his fingers found the slick heat between her legs, Emily made a sound that was half gasp, half whimper. "Harry," she breathed, hips lifting to meet his touch.
Harry explored her carefully, finding the sensitive bundle of nerves that made her tremble when he circled it with his thumb. Her wetness coated his fingers as he slid one, then two inside her, curling them in a way that seemed to hit a particularly sensitive spot.
"There," Emily panted, eyes squeezed shut. "Right there. Don't stop."
Harry had no intention of stopping. He watched her face as he continued his ministrations, fascinated by the play of expressions across her features—pleasure, surprise, growing tension. Her breathing became more erratic, her internal muscles tightening around his fingers.
"I'm going to—" she gasped, then broke off as her body tensed, back arching off the mattress. "Harry!"
The sound of his name on her lips as she climaxed sent a surge of satisfaction through him that was deeper, more primitive than anything he'd felt before. He continued his gentle movements, helping her ride out the waves of pleasure until she collapsed back onto the bed, chest heaving.
"That was..." Emily seemed at a loss for words, her eyes glazed with satisfaction. "I've never... not like that."
Harry couldn't help the smug smile that spread across his face. "Good?"
"Incredible," she corrected, pulling him down for a kiss that was both tender and hungry. When they broke apart, there was a new determination in her eyes. "My turn."
Before Harry could respond, Emily had pushed against his shoulder, rolling him onto his back. She straddled his thighs, her blonde hair falling forward like a curtain as she bent to kiss his chest, paying special attention to the silvery scars.
"These must have hurt," she murmured against his skin.
"I don't remember much about it," Harry replied honestly, though not for the reasons she might assume.
Emily continued her downward exploration, tongue tracing the lines of his abdomen, fingers following the trail of dark hair that led from his navel to his straining erection. When she reached it, she looked up at him through her lashes, a mixture of nervousness and determination in her eyes.
"I want to taste you," she said softly. "Is that okay?"
Harry could only nod, words failing him completely. The sight of Emily poised above his cock, her lips mere inches away, was almost enough to send him over the edge then and there.
The first touch of her tongue against his shaft drew a strangled groan from deep in his chest. Emily began tentatively, exploring his length with small licks and kisses, learning what made his breath hitch and his hips buck. When she finally took him into her mouth, the wet heat enveloping him was almost too much to bear.
"Emily," he gasped, hands fisting in the sheets to prevent himself from grabbing her head.
She hummed in response, the vibration adding another layer of sensation. Her technique was clearly inexperienced but enthusiastic, taking as much of him as she could (which wasn't even half his length) while her hand worked the rest of his shaft.
"Is this good?" she asked, pulling back momentarily. Her lips were swollen, a strand of saliva connecting her mouth to the tip of his cock. The sight was so erotic that Harry had to close his eyes briefly to maintain control.
"Perfect," he managed. "You're perfect."
Encouraged, Emily returned to her task with renewed vigor, varying her speed and pressure based on his reactions. Harry felt the familiar tightening that signaled his approaching climax and gently tugged at her shoulder.
"Wait," he said, voice rough with need. "I don't want to finish like this."
Emily released him with a final, lingering lick that made his cock twitch. "How do you want to finish?" she asked, crawling up his body to plant a kiss on his lips.
In answer, Harry flipped their positions with a swift movement that drew a surprised gasp from Emily. He hovered above her, his eyes meeting hers in silent question. Emily nodded, reaching down to guide him to her entrance.
"I'm on the pill," she whispered, answering his unspoken concern. "It's okay."
Harry positioned himself between her thighs, the head of his cock pressing against her wet heat. He entered her slowly, mindful of his size and her relative inexperience. Emily's eyes widened as he stretched her, her hands gripping his shoulders tightly.
"Are you alright?" he asked, pausing when he was only partway inside.
Emily nodded, though her expression was a mixture of pleasure and discomfort. "Just... go slow. You're bigger than I'm used to."
Harry gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to thrust forward and claim her completely. Instead, he maintained his careful pace, giving her time to adjust to each inch of his length. When he was finally seated fully within her, both of them let out a shaky breath.
"Okay?" he asked, remaining perfectly still though every instinct screamed at him to move.
"More than okay," Emily assured him, a smile spreading across her face. Her hands moved from his shoulders to his back, then lower to grip his buttocks. "You can move now."
Harry began with slow, measured thrusts, watching Emily's face for any sign of discomfort. But her expression showed only increasing pleasure, her eyes half-closed and lips parted as she met each thrust with a lift of her hips.
"Faster," she urged, her nails digging into his skin. "Please, Harry."
Something inside him shifted at her plea—the careful control he'd been maintaining giving way to something wilder, more demanding. His thrusts became deeper, more forceful, the rhythm quickening to match the pounding of his heart.
Emily responded with enthusiasm, her legs wrapping around his waist to draw him deeper. "Yes," she gasped, head thrown back against the pillow. "Like that. Just like that."
The moonlight streaming through the window bathed their entwined bodies in silver, highlighting the sheen of sweat on their skin. Harry felt his control slipping further, his movements becoming more dominant, more possessive. He gripped Emily's hips, angling her to meet his thrusts more forcefully.
"Harry," she moaned, the sound driving him to even greater efforts. "Oh God, Harry!"
He could feel her tightening around him, her internal muscles clenching as she approached her second climax. Her breathing came in short, sharp gasps, her fingers clutching at his back, his arms, the sheets—anything to anchor herself against the onslaught of sensation.
"Look at me," Harry commanded, his voice deeper than normal.
Emily's eyes flew open, locking with his. For a moment, he wondered if she could see the change in them—the hint of gold that sometimes replaced the green when his emotions ran high. But she was too far gone in pleasure to notice, her body tensing beneath him as she reached her peak.
"Harry!" His name became a cry of ecstasy as she shattered around him, her release triggering a rush of wetness that made his continued thrusts even smoother.
Harry maintained his pace, drawing out her orgasm with relentless precision. When her tremors subsided, he surprised her by pulling out completely.
"Turn over," he said, the words more command than request.
Emily complied without hesitation, rolling onto her stomach and then rising to her hands and knees. She looked back at him over her shoulder, blonde hair cascading down her back, eyes heavy with satisfied desire. "Like this?"
Harry moved behind her, hands appreciating the curve of her buttocks before positioning himself at her entrance again. He entered her in one smooth stroke, drawing a sharp gasp from her lips.
"Oh!" Emily's arms nearly buckled beneath her. "That's... deep."
"Too much?" Harry asked, stilling despite the urgent need to move.
"No," she assured him quickly. "It's good. Really good."
Harry began to move again, his hands gripping her hips to control the depth and angle of his thrusts. From this position, he could see the elegant line of her spine, the way her back arched to meet him, the perfect roundness of her ass as it pressed against him.
Something primal and possessive surged through him, urging him to claim, to dominate. His thrusts became harder, more insistent, drawing increasingly vocal responses from Emily. Her arms finally gave way, leaving her chest pressed against the mattress while her hips remained elevated, completely at his mercy.
"Harry," she panted, her voice muffled by the pillow. "So good... don't stop..."
He had no intention of stopping. Harry felt as though he could continue indefinitely, his stamina enhanced by his condition. He reached around to find the sensitive bud between her legs, circling it with his fingers in time with his thrusts.
The dual stimulation proved too much for Emily. For the third time, her body tensed in climax, internal muscles clamping down on him with such intensity that Harry nearly lost his own control. She called his name again and again, the sound mingling with incoherent pleas and expressions of pleasure.
Only when her third orgasm had subsided did Harry allow himself to pursue his own release. His movements became less controlled, his fingers leaving marks on her hips that would likely bruise by morning. The pressure built at the base of his spine, coiling tighter with each thrust until finally, he reached his peak.
The intensity of his orgasm was unlike anything he'd experienced before—wave after wave of pleasure washing through him as he emptied himself inside her. For a moment, the room seemed to disappear, his senses overwhelmed by the sheer force of his release.
When awareness returned, Harry found himself collapsed beside Emily, both of them breathing heavily. She turned to face him, her expression a mixture of satisfaction and awe.
"That was..." she began, then shook her head, apparently at a loss for words. "I've never... Three times, Harry. I didn't even know that was possible."
Harry smiled, a touch of the predator still visible in his expression. "Guess I'm full of surprises."
Emily laughed softly, snuggling against his chest. "That's putting it mildly." She traced one of his scars with a gentle finger. "Where have you been hiding all this time, Harry Potter?"
"Scotland, mostly," he replied with a small smile, knowing she couldn't possibly understand the true complexity of his answer.
Emily yawned, her eyelids growing heavy. "Well, I'm glad you came back. This summer just got a whole lot more interesting."
As she drifted toward sleep, Harry remained awake, acutely conscious of the moon's position in the sky outside the window. Tomorrow night, it would be full, its power over him complete. But tonight had shown him something unexpected—perhaps his condition didn't have to be solely a curse. Perhaps there were aspects of his new self that could bring pleasure.
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