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The Dursleys were out for the day—some neighborhood garden competition Petunia had been obsessing over for weeks. ("My hydrangeas will crush Janice's pathetic attempt at horticulture," she'd declared at breakfast with bloodthirsty enthusiasm.)
Harry dialed before he could change his mind, heart thumping unnecessarily fast as the phone rang once, twice, three times.
"Hello?" Emily's voice was slightly breathless, as though she'd rushed to answer.
"Emily." Harry winced at how formal he sounded. "It's Harry."
His enhanced hearing picked up her subtle intake of breath, the slight acceleration of her pulse. "Well, well, if it isn't the mysterious Harry Potter," she replied, amusement warming her tone. "To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure? Did you forget something in my bedroom last night?"
Harry felt heat rise to his face. Emily had no filter, a quality that was both mortifying and refreshing. "Actually, I was wondering if you might be free tonight. For dinner. A proper date. Well, a second one."
The silence that followed lasted exactly 3.7 seconds—his wolf-enhanced senses were annoyingly precise about such things.
"A proper date?" Her tone was caught between surprise and amusement. "You mean like normal people, with food and conversation, fully clothed in a public place? Not just you appearing at my window like some sexy ninja after my parents are asleep?"
Harry choked back a laugh. "That's the general idea, yeah."
"Color me intrigued, Potter. What's the occasion? Did they add 'learning proper dating etiquette' to the St. Brutus delinquent rehabilitation program?"
Harry twisted the phone cord between his fingers. "I'm leaving soon," he said, the lightness fading from his voice. "Heading back to school earlier than expected. I thought... well, I thought we should say goodbye properly."
The playfulness drained from Emily's voice as well. "When?"
"Saturday. Noon."
Another pause. "That's... soon."
"....Yeah."
"Dinner sounds nice," she finally said, her tone deliberately casual. "Pick me up at seven? I'll wear something that requires more effort to remove than pajamas."
Harry laughed despite himself. "Perfect. I'll see you then."
After hanging up, Harry surveyed his wardrobe with dismay. Dudley's castoffs had always hung from his scrawny frame like circus tents, but now, with his magically enhanced physique, they looked even more ridiculous—too short in some places, straining at the seams in others.
"Right," Harry muttered. "Time to finally buy clothes that actually fit."
Two hours, Harry stood before Emily's front door feeling like an impostor in his own skin. The new dark jeans and forest green button-down fit his transformed body perfectly. The shop assistant—a bubbly girl who'd spent far too much time measuring his "inseam"—had insisted the shirt "made his eyes pop," whatever that meant.
Before he could knock, the door swung open. Emily stood there in a simple black dress that was anything but simple in effect, her dark hair falling loose around her shoulders. Her eyes widened appreciatively as she took in his appearance.
"Well, well, well," she said, leaning against the doorframe with casualness that didn't quite hide her reaction. "Look what happens when Harry Potter shops somewhere besides the Dursley hand-me-down emporium. You clean up surprisingly well for a juvenile delinquent."
Harry grinned, finding confidence he hadn't known he possessed. "You look beautiful," he said simply. "Shall we?"
Emily linked her arm through his. "Lead on, Mr. Potter. Show me what passes for romance in your mysterious Scottish boarding school."
They walked through Little Whinging's identical streets as the setting sun painted the cookie-cutter houses in golden light. Harry found himself hyperaware of everything—the weight of Emily's arm linked through his, the subtle scent of her perfume (something with vanilla and amber), the curious glances from neighbors unused to seeing "that Potter boy" walking with a pretty girl.
"So," Emily said as they turned onto the high street, "tell me more about this mysterious school of yours."
"It's very old, very traditional. Think stone castle, drafty corridors, professors in ridiculous robes."
"Sounds medieval," Emily remarked. "Do they still use corporal punishment? Make you write lines with actual quills or something equally archaic?"
Before he could formulate a response, they arrived at Bella Notte, Little Whinging's only Italian restaurant that wasn't a chain. The small family-owned place boasted red-checkered tablecloths and candles stuffed into wax-covered Chianti bottles.
The hostess—a grandmotherly woman with an actual Italian accent—seated them in a quiet corner booth, giving Harry a conspiratorial wink that made him blush furiously.
Emily rested her chin on her hand, studying him across the flickering candlelight. "You know what I just realized? In all our... encounters, we've never actually done this. Just talked. Well, we never talked that long, we did in the first date, but then, well..."
Harry blinked, realizing she was right. Their relationship had been primarily physical—intense and mutually satisfying, but limited to hushed conversations in her darkened bedroom, punctuated by considerably less verbal activities.
"I'm sorry about that," he said sincerely.
Emily rolled her eyes. "Don't apologize. I wasn't exactly pushing for deep conversation at 1 AM with my parents sleeping down the hall." Her gaze turned more serious. "But I am curious about you, Harry. The real you, not just the surprisingly skilled boy who appears at my window like some horny Peter Pan."
Harry nearly choked on his water. "That's... quite an image."
"You're avoiding the question," Emily pointed out, amusement dancing in her eyes.
"You didn't actually ask one," Harry countered.
"Touché." Emily leaned forward. "Let's start easy. What do you learn in this old, school of yours?"
Harry considered his answer carefully as the waiter approached with menus. "The usual subjects," he said once they were alone again. "History, literature, sciences. Though the teaching methods are... unconventional."
"Unconventional how?" Emily asked, scanning the menu with one eye while keeping the other trained on him.
"Hands-on learning. Lots of practical application." Harry thought of Defense Against the Dark Arts, Potions brewing, and Transfiguration. "The professors believe in learning by doing rather than just reading from textbooks."
"Sounds progressive for such an old institution," Emily mused. "What's your favorite subject?"
"Defense Against the—" Harry caught himself. "Defense studies. Learning to protect yourself and others. My professor says I have a natural aptitude for it."
Emily raised an eyebrow. "Defense studies? Like martial arts?"
"Something like that," Harry agreed, grateful for the reasonable interpretation.
The waiter returned, and they ordered—carbonara for Emily, pizza margherita for Harry. As the young Italian man departed with their menus, Emily leaned back in the booth.
"Your turn to ask me something," she said. "What do you want to know about the mysterious Emily?"
Harry found himself genuinely curious. Despite their physical intimacy, he realized he knew surprisingly little about her beyond the basic facts. "What do you want to do after school? You mentioned biology before."
Emily's face lit up. "Marine biology, specifically. I want to study coral reef ecosystems." She gestured animatedly as she spoke. "Did you know that coral reefs support twenty-five percent of all marine species despite covering less than one percent of the ocean floor? They're like underwater rainforests."
"That's brilliant. Where would you study something like that?"
"University of Southampton has an excellent marine biology program. They have research stations in tropical locations where you can study reefs firsthand." Her expression dimmed slightly. "Though my parents think it's a waste of time. They want me to study something 'practical' like accounting or nursing."
"But it's your life," Harry said, surprised by the vehemence in his own voice.
Emily smiled. "Spoken like someone who's clearly never met my parents. They have very definite ideas about appropriate career paths for young ladies." She made air quotes around the last phrase. "What about your aunt and uncle? Are they supportive of your... whatever it is you're planning to do?"
Harry almost laughed at the question. "The Dursleys and I don't exactly see eye to eye on anything. They'd prefer if I disappeared entirely."
"That's awful," Emily said, her expression growing serious. "They're your family."
"By blood only," Harry replied, then quickly changed the subject as their food arrived. "This looks incredible."
They ate in comfortable conversation, Emily sharing stories about her secondary school friends and Harry carefully editing tales from Hogwarts. He found himself relaxing despite the constant mental gymnastics required to avoid mentioning magic.
"You're different tonight," Emily observed as they shared a tiramisu dessert. "More open. Less guarded."
Harry considered this. "Maybe because I'm leaving. No point keeping walls up if I'm saying goodbye."
Emily's fork paused halfway to her mouth. "About that. When exactly do you go back to this school?"
"Saturday noon," Harry repeated. "My friend's father is collecting me."
Emily set her fork down, suddenly very interested in arranging the crumbs on her plate. "And when would you be back?"
"Not until next summer, probably." Harry hesitated. "And even then, I might not come back to Privet Drive. My godfather—" He stopped, realizing he'd never mentioned Sirius to her. "I might stay elsewhere."
A weighted silence fell between them. Emily traced the rim of her water glass with one finger, not meeting his eyes.
"I thought this was just a summer thing," she said finally. "Just fun. No strings."
"It was," Harry confirmed, puzzled by the shift in her demeanor. "Isn't that what we agreed?"
Emily looked up, her expression complicated. "Yes, but..." She sighed. "I didn't expect to actually like you, Harry. The real you, not just the hot body and—" she lowered her voice, glancing around the restaurant "—exceptional bedroom skills."
Heat crept up Harry's neck. "Oh."
"Don't look so terrified," she said with a laugh that didn't quite reach her eyes. "I'm not declaring undying love or anything dramatic. I just... I'll miss you, I think. More than I expected to."
The confession caught Harry completely off-guard. In his mind, their arrangement had been purely physical—convenient and satisfying for both of them, but ultimately meaningless beyond the pleasure they shared. He hadn't considered that Emily might develop genuine feelings for him.
"I'll miss you too," he said, surprised to find he meant it. Not in the same way he'd miss Ron or Hermione, but genuinely nonetheless.
Emily's smile turned wistful. "No, you won't. Not really. You'll go back to your castle school, to your Hermione with her research and loyalty, and Little Emily will fade like those dreams you can't quite remember after waking up." She reached across the table, taking his hand. "And that's okay. That's how it should be."
Harry felt a pang of guilt. She wasn't entirely wrong.
"I'm sorry if I—"
"Don't you dare apologize," Emily interrupted, squeezing his hand. "I knew what this was from the start. I'm a big girl, Harry." Her lips quirked in a mischievous smile. "Speaking of which, we still have tonight, don't we?"
Harry nodded.
"Let me pay, and we can go," he said, his voice rougher than he intended.
Outside, the summer evening had transformed into a clear, star-filled night. They walked in companionable silence, Emily's hand in his. The streets of Little Whinging were quiet, most families already retreated behind drawn curtains and blaring televisions.
"Did you mean what you said earlier?" Emily asked suddenly as they turned onto her street. "About standing up to bullies?"
Harry nodded. "Someone has to."
"Is that why you have those nightmares? The ones where you cry out in your sleep?"
Harry stopped walking, staring at her in surprise. "I have nightmares?"
Emily's expression softened. "You didn't know? Sometimes, after... well, after we're done and you fall asleep, you thrash around and mutter things. Names I don't recognize. You sound terrified."
Harry swallowed hard. "What names?"
"Your parents, sometimes," Emily said gently. "And someone called Sirius. And you keep saying 'he's innocent' over and over."
Harry felt discomfort that his subconscious was so transparent.
"Sorry," Emily said, misinterpreting his silence. "I shouldn't have mentioned it."
"No, it's okay," Harry said quickly. "It's just... complicated. My parents died when I was a baby, and Sirius is my godfather. He was..." Harry searched for a sufficiently vague explanation, "...wrongfully accused of something. But he's innocent."
"I'm sorry about your parents," Emily said softly. "That must be hard."
"I was too young to remember them," Harry replied automatically, the familiar phrase feeling hollow even to his own ears.
"That doesn't make it easier," Emily observed with surprising perception. "It might make it harder in some ways."
Before Harry could respond to this unexpectedly insightful comment, they reached Emily's house, dark except for a porch light. She'd mentioned earlier that her parents were visiting her grandmother for the night—information that would have had only one implication when Harry arrived at her door hours earlier.
Now, as they stood on her doorstep, the atmosphere had shifted into something more complex than simple desire.
"Come in," Emily said, unlocking her door. "We can talk more inside. Or not talk. Your choice."
Her bedroom was familiar territory—the purple bedspread, band posters on the walls, textbooks stacked neatly on her desk. But tonight, Harry noticed details he'd overlooked during their previous encounters—photographs of Emily with friends, a worn stuffed elephant peeking from behind her pillow, academic awards pinned to a corkboard.
Emily sat on her bed, patting the space beside her. "So, Harry Potter from the specialized castle school in Scotland, with his complicated life and mysterious transformations." Her tone was light but her eyes serious. "Any other secrets you want to share before you disappear from my life?"
Harry sat beside her, close enough to feel her warmth but not touching. "I wish I could tell you everything," he said honestly. "But some things are better left unsaid."
"Ooh, cryptic," Emily teased, but her smile was gentle. "Whatever your secrets are, I hope they're worth keeping."
"They are," Harry said, thinking of the magical world with its wonders and terrors. "I enjoyed the last two weeks. Taking pretty girls to dinner without worrying about... everything else."
Emily raised an eyebrow. "Pretty, huh?"
"Beautiful," Harry corrected, newfound confidence making the compliment easier to deliver.
She leaned closer, her scent—floral shampoo, the subtle sweetness of her skin—flooding his heightened senses. "You know, for a supposed juvenile delinquent, you can be surprisingly charming."
Harry smiled. "Don't tell anyone. I have a reputation to maintain as the neighborhood menace."
"Your secret's safe with me," Emily promised. "I'll keep telling everyone you're a dangerous criminal with terrible fashion sense and no social skills."
"Harsh but fair," Harry acknowledged with a grin.
"You know what else is harsh but fair?" Emily asked, leaning closer still.
"What's that?"
"The fact that you bought new clothes just to say goodbye to me," she murmured, her fingers toying with the buttons of his shirt, "and now I'm going to make you take them all off."
Their kiss began softly, without the urgent hunger they usually had. Harry cupped her face gently, mindful of his strength, allowing himself to simply experience the moment without the driving need his condition often provoked.
When they finally separated, Emily studied his face in the dim light from her bedside lamp. "That was different," she observed. "Less... wolf-like."
Harry froze. "What did you say?"
Emily shrugged. "That's what I've been calling it in my head—your wild side. The way you get sometimes, all intense and focused. Like you're hunting or something. Reminds me of a wolf."
Relief washed over him. Just a coincidence—a disturbingly accurate one, but a coincidence nonetheless.
"Is that a complaint?" he asked, recovering his composure.
"God, no," Emily replied with a slow smile. "In fact..." She leaned in to whisper in his ear, describing exactly what she wanted from him with startling frankness that made his ears burn and his pulse quicken.
Harry felt his control slipping, the wolf inside responding to her words with rising heat. But tonight was different. Tonight was goodbye. He wanted to remember her face, her laughter, the human connection beyond the physical release.
"We have all night," he said, gently tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Let's make it count."
Hours later, as moonlight streamed through her window and Emily slept peacefully beside him, Harry carefully extricated himself from her embrace. He dressed silently, enhanced vision allowing him to navigate her room without disturbance.
Before leaving, he placed a small note on her bedside table—nothing elaborate, just a simple "Thank you for everything. Take care of yourself. -Harry Potter."
Standing at her window, Harry allowed himself one final look at Emily Polkiss—the Muggle girl who had, however briefly, helped him navigate the complexities of his new condition. She would never know the truth about him, about his world, about the dangers that lay ahead. Perhaps that was for the best.
With the ease of someone who had made this exit many times before, Harry slipped out through her window and into the summer night, his footsteps soundless as he made his way back to Privet Drive.
Behind him, unknown to Harry, Emily stirred slightly in her sleep, one hand reaching across the empty space where he had been, a small frown crossing her dreaming face as she unconsciously registered his absence. Her fingers closed around his note, and though still asleep, she pulled it closer to her heart.
🪄
🪄
Harry woke with a jolt, sunlight streaming through his partially covered window. His first conscious thought was Saturday. Today was Saturday. The Weasleys were coming at noon.
He glanced at his clock - 7:36 AM. Still plenty of time to prepare. Rolling out of bed, he noticed how much easier movement had become since his transformation. His body moved much faster, and he never felt as tired as he used to feel.
Harry moved to his window, carefully peering through the gap in his makeshift curtain. Privet Drive looked painfully ordinary in the morning light - immaculate lawns, polished cars, and not a single hint of the magical world that would soon intrude upon its stuffy perfection. His enhanced vision caught Mrs. Number Seven watering her roses while sneaking glances at Number Four, no doubt hoping for gossip about the delinquent Potter boy.
"Last morning in this hellhole," Harry muttered, turning to survey his room.
His trunk sat open on the floor, already half-packed with school robes, textbooks, and his invisibility cloak. Hedwig's cage stood clean and ready beside it. The three wandless magic books from Sirius were carefully wrapped in his old jumper, hidden beneath his cauldron where prying eyes wouldn't notice them.
Harry's fingers twitched with the urge to practice. He'd made remarkable progress over the past three days, mastering not just Lumos and Aguamenti but also simple levitation. Last night, he'd managed to float a quill around his room for nearly ten minutes without exhaustion.
"One more quick session," he decided, stepping to the center of his cleared floor space.
Harry closed his eyes, finding his magical core with practiced ease. The warm energy in his chest had become a familiar friend, responding eagerly to his call. He extended his right hand, palm up, and whispered, "Incendio."
A small flame danced above his palm, perfectly controlled and contained. Unlike his earlier attempts, which had produced either weak sparks or alarmingly large blazes, this flame maintained a steady, candle-sized glow.
"Perfect," Harry murmured, studying the fire with satisfaction.
He maintained the flame while extending his left hand, calling, "Lumos."
A sphere of light appeared above his left palm, floating inches from his skin. Holding two spells simultaneously had been impossible just days ago. Now, it merely required concentration.
As he released both spells, allowing the flame and light to fade, Harry couldn't help but smile. His lycanthropic condition had amplified both his magical focus and stamina beyond anything he'd imagined possible. What would Hermione say when she—
Hermione. The thought of her sent a complicated surge of emotions through him. Her last letter sat on his desk beside Emily's hastily scrawled phone number.
Last night with Emily had been... intense. Their goodbye had carried an unexpected weight, both understanding they were ending something significant despite its brief duration. Emily had kissed him deeply at her doorstep, whispering that Stonewall High's loss was St. Brutus's gain, whatever that meant.
"You've got my number," she'd said, pressing the paper into his hand. "In case you ever get sick of that posh reform school."
Harry had taken it, knowing he'd never call but unable to explain why. He'd simply nodded, thanked her for everything, and walked away into the darkness, his enhanced vision rendering the unlit street as clear as day.
A loud crash from downstairs interrupted Harry's reminiscing.
"BOY!" Uncle Vernon's voice bellowed. "GET DOWN HERE!"
Harry sighed, running a hand through his perpetually messy hair. Some things never changed, enhanced strength or not. It was not like they tried to force him to do anything anymore; they knew they couldn't, but that didn't mean they still didn't yell his name. The only thing he did for this house now was cleaning the room he was using; that's all he did.
He found Uncle Vernon in the kitchen, face purple with rage, jabbing a fat finger at the calendar hanging beside the refrigerator.
"What's this about visitors today?" Vernon demanded. "Petunia says you mentioned something about your lot coming to collect you?"
Harry maintained a calm expression, though a glint of mischief danced in his eyes. "Oh, didn't Aunt Petunia tell you? The Weasleys are coming at noon. By car," he quickly clarified, watching Uncle Vernon's face begin its familiar shift toward panic. "A perfectly ordinary, Ministry-approved car, mind you. I'm sure you'll barely notice them—though I'm happy to warn the neighbors if you'd prefer."
Vernon's mustache twitched violently. "And they're taking you away? For the rest of summer?"
"Yes, unless you want me to stay longer," Harry said with a smile, watching various emotions war across his uncle's face—relief at Harry's departure battling with suspicion over the means.
"We have plans today," Vernon finally announced. "Petunia and I are taking Dudley shopping in London for his school supplies. We won't be here when these... people arrive."
Harry shrugged casually, his voice dripping with mock disappointment. "Oh, that's a shame. I'll try my best not to be too heartbroken."
Vernon eyed him suspiciously. "No funny business while we're gone. No touching anything that doesn't belong to you."
"Relax," Harry drawled lightly, "I'll be far too busy packing all my worldly possessions—don't suppose you have a spare matchbox I could borrow?"
A tense silence followed, broken by Petunia's arrival in the kitchen, her thin face pinched with disapproval as she noticed Harry.
"Vernon, we should leave early to avoid traffic," she announced, pointedly ignoring her nephew.
"Right," Vernon grunted, giving Harry one last warning glare before waddling from the kitchen.
Alone, Harry helped himself to toast and eggs, preparing a larger breakfast than usual to fuel his enhanced metabolism. As he ate, he mentally cataloged everything he needed to pack, particularly his journal documenting his condition and progress.
The sound of the Dursleys' car pulling out of the driveway signaled his complete solitude. Harry finished his breakfast, washed his dishes from habit, and climbed the stairs to complete his packing.
His room looked different in the full morning light—less like a prison cell and more like a temporary stopping place.
Harry carefully packed his remaining possessions, taking special care with Sirius's books and his own detailed journal. Just as he closed his trunk, a soft tapping at his window announced Hedwig's return from her night's hunting.
"Perfect timing," Harry told her, opening the window. "We're leaving today."
Hedwig hooted approvingly and flew to her cage, settling in for a nap after her nocturnal adventures.
Harry glanced at his watch—10:47 AM. Still over an hour before the Weasleys would arrive.
"One more practice," he decided, pulling Sirius's intermediate book from his trunk.
The chapter on wandless defensive magic had particularly interested him, especially a section on creating physical force without a specific spell. According to the text, the most old form of wandless magic was pure kinetic energy—the magical equivalent of pushing or pulling.
Harry centered himself in the room, focusing on his magical core. This time, instead of directing the energy to create light, water, or fire, he concentrated on projecting raw force.
He extended his hand toward his desk chair, visualizing an invisible wave of energy pushing outward from his palm. No incantation, just pure will and focused magic.
For several seconds, nothing happened. Then, as Harry intensified his concentration, drawing on his wolfish instincts, the chair slid backward several inches.
"Yes!" he exclaimed, the momentary break in concentration ending the effect.
Harry tried again, this time pulling rather than pushing. He extended his hand toward a quill on his desk, visualizing it flying to his palm. The quill twitched, rose unsteadily into the air, and then shot toward him with surprising speed, slapping against his palm.
"Bloody brilliant," Harry whispered, staring at the quill in wonder.
Harry was about to attempt a more complex version when the doorbell rang, startling him from his concentration.
He glanced at his watch—11:27 AM. The Weasleys were early.
Harry bounded down the stairs, taking them three at a time with his enhanced agility. He pulled open the front door to find not the entire Weasley clan as expected, but just Mr. Weasley and Ron, standing beside a perfectly ordinary-looking black sedan.
"Harry!" Mr. Weasley exclaimed, beaming. "Excellent! Ready to go, are we?"
"Almost, Mr. Weasley," Harry replied, grinning back. "Just need to bring my trunk down. Come in for a minute."
As they stepped inside, Harry noticed Ron staring at him with shock.
"Bloody hell, Harry," Ron blurted. "You look... different."
Harry had almost forgotten how dramatic his physical changes would appear to someone who hadn't seen him in weeks. He'd grown at least two inches, his formerly skinny frame now solid with lean muscle, and he no longer walked around like he was carrying a weight on his shoulders.
"Er, yeah," Harry replied awkwardly. "Been exercising a lot. Part of the... you know."
Ron nodded slowly, then gave a mischievous grin. "Blimey, Harry. You planning to arm-wrestle trolls for pocket money this year?"
Harry chuckled. "Only if Hagrid arranges it."
"Seriously though, mate," Ron said, recovering quickly, "you look brilliant. Reckon you'll outfly Malfoy blindfolded now."
"I've also been working on wandless magic," Harry admitted, deciding to confide fully in Ron. "Nothing powerful—just small spells, like lighting candles or moving my quills."
Ron looked impressed. "Wicked. Can you show me something now?"
Harry glanced around his room, spotting an old sock lying near Hedwig's cage. Concentrating briefly, he lifted it a few inches from the floor before letting it fall back down.
"Wow," Ron said enthusiastically, "Imagine if you did that to Malfoy's robes in the Great Hall. Brilliant!"
Harry grinned. "Yeah, the Sorting Hat might sort him again—straight into embarrassment."
Ron laughed loudly, shaking his head. "Merlin, this year's going to be amazing."
"I'll get my trunk," Harry said, feeling relieved and buoyed by Ron's easy acceptance.
"I'll help," Ron offered cheerfully, following Harry upstairs.
In his room, Ron's eyes widened further. "Blimey, Harry, how much stronger are you exactly?"
Harry shrugged modestly. "Enough to finally open those stubborn Chocolate Frog packets without magic."
"Must be nice," Ron replied wistfully. "Took me five minutes last night, nearly broke a tooth."
"Well," Harry said with mock seriousness, "with great power comes great snackability."
Ron laughed again, shaking his head. "Mate, you're turning into Fred and George."
"I'll take that as a compliment," Harry replied, grinning.
Together, they carried Harry's trunk downstairs easily, Ron remarking, "No wonder you've gotten all buff; carrying this thing alone would make anyone strong."
Mr. Weasley was examining the Dursleys' television with fascination. "Remarkable what Muggles create to compensate for magic," he mused. "This eclectricity is quite ingenious."
"Ready, Mr. Weasley," Harry announced.
"Splendid! Let's get this in the boot, then."
Outside, Harry locked the Dursleys' front door, leaving the key under the mat as instructed. As Mr. Weasley loaded the trunk into the magically expanded boot of their seemingly ordinary car, Harry took one last glance at Number Four, Privet Drive.
"No tears, Harry?" Ron teased gently.
"Oh, just holding them in," Harry replied dryly, "Don't want to flood the street."
Mr. Weasley chuckled. "Everything all right, Harry?"
Harry smiled genuinely. "Everything's perfect."
As the car pulled away, Ron eagerly began recounting the summer's Quidditch updates. "The Cannons are hopeless as ever—honestly, even Ginny gave up listening after a week. But the World Cup, Harry, it's going to be incredible. Dad pulled some strings, got tickets for all of us—including Hermione."
Harry felt his pulse quicken. "Brilliant," he managed, hoping his ears weren't turning red.
Ron noticed Harry's reaction and smirked knowingly. "You alright there, mate? Looked a bit flustered."
Harry quickly regained his composure. "Just trying to picture Hermione cheering at a Quidditch match. Reckon she'll bring a book?"
"Probably two," Ron agreed seriously. "One for each half."
"Fred and George been up to anything interesting?" Harry asked, smoothly steering the conversation away.
Ron groaned dramatically. "Too much, according to Mum. They've invented enough new tricks this summer to open a proper joke shop. Calling it 'Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes.'"
Harry laughed appreciatively. "Catchy. Reckon Hogwarts will survive?"
Ron shrugged. "If it does, it'll never be the same again."
Harry grinned broadly, relaxing back into the seat. "Good."
As they turned onto the narrow country lane leading to Ottery St. Catchpole, Harry caught his first glimpse of the Burrow in the distance—crooked, haphazard, and entirely wonderful.
"Almost there," Mr. Weasley announced cheerfully. "Arthur Weasley's Magical Taxi Service, arriving precisely on schedule!"
Ron snorted. "Dad, nobody calls taxis 'magical.' That defeats the whole point of Muggle transportation."
"I stand corrected," Mr. Weasley replied good-naturedly as he navigated the final bend in the road.
As they turned onto the narrow country lane leading to Ottery St. Catchpole, Harry caught his first glimpse of the Burrow in the distance—crooked, haphazard, and entirely wonderful.
"There it is," Ron said unnecessarily, pointing through the windshield. "Oh, and there's Hermione."
Harry's heart performed an Olympic-worthy gymnastic routine in his chest. Harry ran a hand through his perpetually messy hair, suddenly self-conscious about his appearance. A quick glance in the side mirror revealed nothing he could fix—his new physique was obvious in even his loosest clothes, and his hair remained determinedly untamable.
"Didn't know you were so eager to see Hermione," Ron remarked with poorly concealed amusement. "Something you want to share with the class, Potter?" Ron asked, trying to sound like Malfoy.
"Shut up," Harry muttered.
Mr. Weasley parked the car in the dusty yard, and before Harry could even open his door, the Burrow's front door burst open. Mrs. Weasley emerged, followed by Ginny, Fred, George, and—there she was—Hermione, all rushing toward the car.
Harry stepped out, immediately locking eyes with Hermione. She froze mid-stride, her mouth forming a perfect "O" of surprise as she took in his transformed appearance.
"Harry, dear!" Mrs. Weasley exclaimed, enveloping him in a warm hug before he could say anything to Hermione. She pulled back, holding him at arm's length. "My goodness, look at you! All grown up and—" She stopped, blinking in surprise. "Well! You've certainly changed!"
"Godric's gym shorts," Fred (or possibly George) exclaimed.
"He's gone and become a Greek statue," the other twin added.
"Is this what happens when you skip the Dursleys' starvation diet?" Fred wondered.
"If so, I'm recommending it to everyone," George concluded.
Harry barely heard them, his enhanced senses entirely focused on Hermione, who still hadn't moved. She was wearing a simple blue sundress, her hair slightly less bushy than he remembered, falling in soft waves around her shoulders. She looked remarkably like the photograph he'd been staring at all summer, only better—real, vibrant, alive.
"Hello, Harry," she finally said, her voice higher than usual. "You look... different."
"That's one way of putting it," Ginny muttered just loudly enough for Harry's enhanced hearing to catch. "Sculpted by the gods is another."
"Watch out, Ginny," the twins chorused together, "your crush just got more crushy."
"Oh please," Ginny hissed, her face flaming red though she didn't deny it. "Like I'm the only one affected." She shot a pointed look at Hermione, whose cheeks immediately flushed.
"I—it's the partial lycanthropy," Hermione stammered, switching instantly to academic mode though her eyes kept darting to Harry's broader shoulders. "The enhanced metabolism and accelerated cellular regeneration naturally results in increased muscle density and—"
"Increased babbling, apparently," Ron interjected, grinning at Hermione's flustered state.
Hermione shot him a glare. "I'm simply explaining the physiological basis for Harry's transformation."
"Is that what we're calling it now?" George asked innocently.
"I thought we were calling it 'hot werewolf summer,'" Fred replied.
"I'm not actually a werewolf," Harry finally managed, finding his voice. "Just... part way there."
"Semantics," Fred waved dismissively.
"The important question," George continued, "is whether you howl at the moon—"
"—or just at pretty witches," Fred finished with a meaningful glance between Harry and Hermione.
The wave of scents and sounds hit Harry like a punch—the Burrow's familiar smells of baking bread and magical household items overlaid with the distinctive personal scents of each Weasley. But cutting through it all was a new scent—vanilla, old books, and something uniquely Hermione that made his pulse quicken alarmingly. His enhanced senses threatened to overwhelm him momentarily before he applied Lupin's mental techniques to dial down the intensity.
"Come in, come in," Mrs. Weasley urged, ushering them toward the house and mercifully interrupting the increasingly awkward exchange. "Lunch is nearly ready. You must be starving, Harry dear."
As they walked toward the house, Hermione fell in step beside Harry, keeping a careful distance that nonetheless felt too close and not close enough simultaneously.
"Your letters didn't quite capture the... extent of the changes," she said quietly, eyes darting to his face and then away again.
"Hard to describe in writing," Harry replied, equally quietly. "Your photo didn't do you justice either."
Hermione's eyes widened slightly. "I wasn't sure if sending it was too forward."
"It wasn't," Harry assured her quickly. "I mean, it was nice. To see you, even just in a photo."
"Not nearly as nice as seeing you in person, I imagine," Fred commented, appearing between them with supernatural timing. "Especially the new and improved version."
"Indeed, Hermione looks positively enchanted," George added, materializing on her other side. "One might even say... bewitched."
"Aren't you two supposed to be annoying someone else?" Hermione asked, her cheeks pink.
"We annoy on a rotating schedule," Fred explained solemnly.
"And right now, it's your turn," George concluded.
The Burrow's kitchen was exactly as Harry remembered—cluttered, warm, and profoundly welcoming. He settled at the familiar wooden table, Hermione taking the seat beside him while Ron sat opposite. Harry couldn't help noticing that Hermione sat slightly closer.
Mrs. Weasley began heaping food onto plates, the portions in front of Harry noticeably larger than everyone else's.
"Growing boys need their strength," she explained when she caught Harry looking at the mountain of food. "Especially ones with... special dietary requirements."
"So, Harry," Fred began, leaning forward conspiratorially.
"Word is," George continued seamlessly, "you've developed some monthly issues."
"Fred! George!" Mrs. Weasley scolded. "That's quite enough. Harry's condition is not for discussion unless he chooses to bring it up."
"Actually," Hermione interjected, "open discussion is beneficial for conditions with social stigma attached. Creating an environment where Harry can speak freely about his partial lycanthropy helps normalize it and reduces psychological stress."
"Thank you, Professor Granger," Fred said solemnly.
"Five points to Gryffindor for excessive vocabulary," George added.
Harry appreciated Mrs. Weasley's defense but found himself surprisingly unbothered by the twins' direct approach. "It's alright, Mrs. Weasley," he said. "I don't mind talking about it. Better than everyone tiptoeing around it."
"See, Mum?" said Fred. "Harry's cool with it."
"So," George pressed, "do you turn furry at the full moon, or what?"
"George!" Mrs. Weasley exclaimed.
"Harry experiences heightened symptoms during the lunar cycle," Hermione answered before Harry could, "but doesn't undergo full transformation. The scratch-induced partial lycanthropy presents primarily as enhanced physical attributes, sensory acuity, and temporary behavioral changes during the full moon."
Everyone stared at her.
"What she said," Harry confirmed with a small smile. "No fur, just... enhancements. Strength, senses, faster healing. That sort of thing."
"He's retained full cognitive function and human consciousness," Hermione added earnestly. "It's really quite fascinating from a magical-medical perspective."
"Wicked," the twins said in unison.
"Does silver burn you?" Ron asked through a mouthful of sandwich.
"Haven't tested it," Harry admitted. "But probably not. Professor Lupin said my condition isn't the same as his."
"I have a silver sickle we could press against you," Fred offered helpfully. "You know, for science."
"Don't you dare," Hermione said sharply. "Even in partial lycanthropy cases, silver sensitivity can manifest unpredictably."
"Been doing some light reading, Hermione?" Ron asked, smirking.
"Seventeen books, actually," Hermione replied without embarrassment. "Though information on partial lycanthropy is frustratingly limited. Most cases are poorly documented or confused with other magical conditions."
"The Ministry has very little documentation on partial lycanthropy as well. It's extraordinarily rare." Arthur said.
"Which makes Harry extraordinary," Ginny said, then immediately looked mortified at having spoken aloud.
"More extraordinary than he already was?" George asked innocently. "Our Harry, the Boy Who Lived To Get Ripped?"
"The Chosen One With Chosen Muscles?" Fred suggested.
"The Partially Furry Potter?" they chorused together.
"Enough," Mrs. Weasley scolded, though Harry noticed she was fighting a smile. "Let the poor boy eat in peace."
The conversation flowed easily from there, the Weasleys' acceptance of his condition more complete and natural than Harry had dared hope. Throughout lunch, he was acutely aware of Hermione beside him—the subtle shifts in her posture when he spoke, the way her scent changed slightly when their eyes met.
By the time lunch ended, Harry felt simultaneously more relaxed and more on edge than he had all summer.
"Harry, dear, you'll be in Ron's room as usual," Mrs. Weasley announced as they finished. "Hermione, you're with Ginny."
"Actually, Mrs. Weasley," Hermione began hesitantly, "I was hoping to discuss some research with Harry about his condition. Perhaps we could use the living room for a while?"
"Of course, dear," Mrs. Weasley said warmly. "Just don't tire him out too much."
"I think Harry's got plenty of stamina these days," Fred commented innocently.
"Fred!" Mrs. Weasley and Hermione exclaimed simultaneously.
As Ron and Harry carried his trunk upstairs, Ron lowered his voice. "So... does it affect... you know... girls?"
Harry nearly stumbled on the stairs. "What do you mean?"
"You know," Ron persisted, ears reddening. "Do girls react differently to you now? Fred says werewolves have some kind of animal magnetism thing."
Harry's thoughts immediately went to Emily, and felt heat rising in his face. Then, his mind shifted to Hermione's reaction upon seeing him. "Um, sort of, yeah. But it's complicated."
Ron's eyes widened. "Did something happen this summer? With a Muggle girl?"
"Later," Harry muttered as they reached Ron's room. "When we're alone."
After depositing his trunk, Harry found Hermione waiting for him in the living room, a stack of books beside her and a determined expression on her face that he knew all too well.
"I wasn't exaggerating about the research," she said as he sat beside her. "I've been studying everything I could find about your condition."
"Of course you have," Harry said, unable to keep the fondness from his voice. "You wouldn't be Hermione otherwise."
She smiled, then grew serious. "Harry, there's something important that might be... awkward to discuss."
Harry's mouth went dry. "More awkward than Fred and George's commentary?"
"Much," Hermione confirmed, her cheeks coloring slightly. "It's about the magical aspects of partial lycanthropy and how they might affect your... emotional state."
"My emotional state?" Harry repeated, not quite following.
"Yes," Hermione said, slipping into lecture mode despite her blush. "According to the limited research available, the condition creates a form of heightened emotional awareness. Your instincts, particularly about people's intentions and feelings toward you, become much more accurate."
"Is that why everything feels so... intense lately?" Harry asked, thinking of how his perceptions seemed sharper, not just physically but emotionally as well.
Hermione nodded eagerly. "Exactly! Professor Lupin mentioned it in his letters, but the historical accounts are even more detailed. One partial lycanthrope from the 1700s described it as 'seeing through the masks people wear.'"
"That sounds... invasive," Harry said uncomfortably.
"It's not mind-reading," Hermione clarified quickly. "More like enhanced intuition. You pick up on subtle cues most people miss—micro-expressions, tiny changes in voice pitch, body language."
Harry considered this. It would explain why he'd been more aware of how people reacted to him—Emily's attraction, Dudley's fear, and even the way Hermione was currently avoiding direct eye contact while discussing this.
"So I'm not imagining things when I think..." He trailed off, suddenly unsure how to finish that sentence without sounding presumptuous.
"When you think what?" Hermione prompted, finally meeting his gaze.
"When I think someone might... have feelings for me that go beyond friendship," Harry finished awkwardly.
Hermione's blush deepened. "Well, that's—I mean—it doesn't give you supernatural insights, just heightened awareness of what's already... there."
"Oh," Harry said eloquently. A beat passed. "Is there something already there, then? With you, I mean?"
The directness of his question clearly caught her off guard. "I—that's not—I mean, objectively speaking—" She took a deep breath. "That's a rather unfair question when you've come back looking like... this." She gestured vaguely at his transformed physique.
"What's unfair about it?" Harry asked, genuinely confused.
"Because!" Hermione exclaimed, then lowered her voice. "Because I've spent the entire summer researching your condition, worrying about you, and thinking about you constantly. And then you walk in all..." she waved her hand at him again, "...different. And I can't tell if what I'm feeling is new or if it's just... intensified."
"Intensified," Harry repeated, heart hammering. "So there was something before?"
Hermione's expression softened. "Harry Potter, for someone with supposedly enhanced intuition, you can be remarkably dense sometimes."
"Is that a yes?" he pressed, leaning forward slightly.
"It's a 'I've cared about you for a very long time in ways that have been... evolving,'" Hermione said carefully. "But I need to know if you felt anything before this summer, or if your interest is just a result of your condition making you more perceptive to attention from girls."
It was Harry's turn to blush. "I've always felt something for you, Hermione. I just didn't know what to call it until recently."
"Recent as in post-lycanthropy?" she pressed.
Harry thought of the photograph he'd tucked into his journal, of the letters he'd read and reread all summer. "I think the condition just made me more honest with myself about feelings that were already there. Like you said—enhanced awareness, not new creation."
A small smile curved Hermione's lips. "That's... a satisfactory answer."
"Satisfactory?" Harry repeated incredulously. "Three years of friendship, a summer of separation, a partial werewolf transformation, and all I get is 'satisfactory'?"
"Would you prefer 'exceeds expectations'?" Hermione asked innocently.
"I'm aiming for 'outstanding,'" Harry replied with newfound confidence.
"That," Hermione said primly, "remains to be seen. I'll require substantial empirical evidence before awarding such a grade."
Before Harry could respond to this promising statement, the twins burst into the room with supernatural timing.
"We couldn't help overhearing—" George began.
"—because we were deliberately eavesdropping—" Fred continued.
"—that our little Hermione has been crushing on Wolf-Boy Potter since before he grew fangs," they finished together.
Hermione's face flamed. "Don't you two have explosions to cause somewhere?"
"We always have time for young love," Fred said solemnly.
"Or young whatever-this-is," George added with a wink.
"Out!" Hermione commanded, pointing toward the door.
The twins retreated, but not before Fred called over his shoulder, "Just remember, Harry—silver might not hurt you, but Mr. and Mrs. Granger are dentists! They have drills!"
When they were finally alone again, Harry and Hermione looked at each other and burst into laughter.
"Is it always going to be like this?" Harry asked, gesturing vaguely to indicate the Weasleys' good-natured teasing.
"Probably," Hermione admitted. "Does that bother you?"
Harry shook his head. "Not at all. It feels like... home."
Mrs. Weasley's voice carried up from the kitchen. "Fred! George! Stop teasing them and help set up for dinner!"
Harry caught Hermione's eye. "We should probably help too."
She nodded, gathering her books. As they stood, she paused. "Harry? This conversation isn't over. We have a lot more to discuss about your condition and... us."
"I look forward to it," Harry said honestly. "Though maybe with fewer eavesdroppers next time."
"Agreed," Hermione said with a smile that sent his pulse racing again. "And Harry? For the record... your transformation is definitely 'outstanding.'"
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