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Number Four, Privet Drive looked exactly the same as it always had—pristine front garden, gleaming windows, and an air of forced suburban perfection. But to Harry Potter, it might as well have been a different place entirely.
As Uncle Vernon's car pulled into the driveway, Harry's nostrils flared at the assault of scents he'd never noticed before: Mrs. Figg's cats from three houses down, the chemical tang of fresh paint on Number Six's fence, and the cloying sweetness of Aunt Petunia's prized roses. Beneath it all lay the familiar smells of the Dursley household—Vernon's cologne, Petunia's cleaning products, and the lingering aroma of bacon from breakfast.
Harry winced as the car door slammed shut. What would have been a simple, everyday sound two weeks ago now felt like a sledgehammer to his eardrums.
"Well, boy?" Vernon barked, his mustache quivering with its usual blend of annoyance and trepidation. "Don't just stand there gawking. Get your trunk inside before the neighbors see."
Harry blinked, forcing himself to focus. "Yes, Uncle Vernon."
The words left his mouth automatically, the product of thirteen years of conditioning. Harry reached for his trunk, then paused, his hand hovering over the handle. Something inside him rebelled at the familiar pattern. After everything he'd been through—facing Voldemort, basilisks, dementors, and now a werewolf attack that had fundamentally changed him—why was he still jumping to obey Vernon Dursley's commands?
"HURRY, boy!" Vernon hissed, glancing nervously at the twitching curtains of Number Seven.
Harry grabbed his trunk, noticing with mild surprise how light it felt compared to previous years. The spellbooks, cauldron, and supplies that once strained his muscles now seemed no heavier than a pillow. He carried it one-handed up the garden path, Hedwig's cage in his other hand.
Inside the house, Aunt Petunia stood with her arms crossed, lips pursed so tightly they'd nearly disappeared. Dudley hovered behind her, his small eyes darting between Harry and the television, clearly annoyed that his cousin's arrival had interrupted his program.
"Now listen here," Vernon began the moment the front door closed behind them. His face had already taken on the mottled purple hue that signaled an impending tirade. "I don't want any of your freakishness this summer, understand? No mention of your—your abnormality. No strange behavior. Nothing that might alert the neighbors that you're not—" he struggled to find the words, "—normal."
Harry set Hedwig's cage down gently on the floor. The owl gave him a sympathetic look through the bars.
"And you'll keep that bird quiet," Vernon continued, building steam. "Last summer was a disaster with all its screeching. And I don't want any of those ruddy owls delivering letters at breakfast time. Bad enough we have to feed you without having to explain to visitors why birds are dropping post through our window!"
Petunia nodded vigorously. "And you'll earn your keep. The garden needs weeding daily, the windows need washing, and Dudley's second bedroom needs repainting."
Harry felt a familiar resignation settling over him. For a moment, he almost nodded in acceptance. Then, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the hallway mirror—the faint yellow glow in his green eyes, the new hardness in his jaw. The scars beneath his shirt seemed to burn against his skin, reminding him of what he'd become.
"No," Harry said quietly.
The single word fell into the hall like a stone into still water. Three Dursley faces turned to him in perfect synchronization, expressions ranging from shock to outrage.
"What did you say, boy?" Vernon's voice dropped dangerously low.
Harry straightened his shoulders. "I said no."
Vernon's face darkened further, veins protruding on his forehead. "Now you listen here—"
"No, YOU listen," Harry cut in, his voice steady but firm. "Things are going to be different this summer."
He took a step toward his uncle, and to his satisfaction, Vernon instinctively backed up until he bumped against the wall. Harry could hear his uncle's heart rate increasing, could smell the sudden acrid tang of fear sweat breaking out across the man's brow.
"I've changed," Harry continued. "And our arrangement is going to change too."
"There is no 'arrangement'!" Vernon sputtered, attempting to regain control. "You live under my roof, you follow my rules, or I'll—"
Harry moved so quickly that even he was surprised. One moment he was standing three feet away, the next his hand was gripping Vernon's shirt collar, lifting the substantially larger man until his toes barely scraped the floor. The fabric strained but held as Harry raised his uncle with seemingly no effort at all.
"Or you'll what?" Harry asked softly.
Aunt Petunia let out a strangled gasp, her bony hands flying to cover her mouth. Dudley backed away so quickly he collided with the living room doorframe, his eyes wide with terror.
"Put him—put him down," Petunia whispered, her voice trembling. "Please."
Harry met Vernon's bulging eyes. The man's face had drained of its purple color, now an unhealthy shade of gray.
"The days of you treating me like garbage are over," Harry said, keeping his voice low and controlled. "I won't be weeding your garden or painting Dudley's room. I won't be hiding in my bedroom pretending I don't exist. I won't be going hungry."
He leaned in slightly, close enough that only Vernon could hear his next words. "I could break you in half without trying, Uncle Vernon. Remember that."
Harry eased his uncle back down to the floor, removing his hand from the now-stretched collar. Vernon staggered slightly, one hand reaching for the wall to steady himself.
"I'll be staying here until school starts again," Harry continued, addressing all three Dursleys now. "I'll come and go as I please. I'll eat proper meals. And before you complain about the expense—" he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small pouch of Galleons he'd converted to muggle money at Gringotts, "—I'll buy my own food."
He dropped the money pouch onto the hallway table with a heavy clink.
"Despite what you've done to me for thirteen years, I'm still decent enough not to be a burden on your finances," Harry said, unable to keep a slight bitter edge from his voice. "Though you hardly deserve the consideration."
For a long moment, no one spoke. Vernon remained pressed against the wall, breathing heavily. Petunia stood frozen, her face a mask of horrified disbelief. Dudley had managed to squeeze his substantial bulk partially behind an umbrella stand.
"Now, if you'll excuse me," Harry said, picking up his trunk and Hedwig's cage once more, "I'll be in my room."
He climbed the stairs without looking back, feeling three pairs of eyes burning into his back. Only when he reached his bedroom and closed the door behind him did he allow himself to process what had just happened.
Harry placed Hedwig's cage on his desk and opened it, allowing the owl to hop onto his arm. She nipped his finger affectionately as he stroked her feathers.
"That was probably stupid," he murmured to her. "But it felt good."
He sat on the edge of his bed, letting the adrenaline drain from his system. For thirteen years, the Dursleys had made him feel small, unwanted, and powerless. Now, in the span of five minutes, he had completely reversed the dynamic.
He should have felt triumphant. Instead, he felt a complex mix of satisfaction, apprehension, and a touch of guilt. The expression on Aunt Petunia's face—pure terror—kept replaying in his mind. He hadn't meant to frighten them that badly, had he? Just to establish boundaries?
Yet beneath those conflicted emotions lay a bedrock of certainty: he would never allow himself to be victimized again—not by the Dursleys, not by Malfoy, not by anyone.
Harry walked to the window and looked out at the perfectly ordinary street below. Somewhere in the distance, a lawnmower hummed. Children laughed in a backyard two houses down. A car alarm briefly sounded then fell silent. All the normal sounds of a summer afternoon in Little Whinging.
With newfound resolve, Harry turned away from the window and began unpacking his trunk. The first item he removed was Professor Lupin's book of defensive spells.
This summer would definitely be different.
9¾
9¾
Harry woke before dawn the next morning, his eyes adjusting instantly to the darkness of his bedroom. The clock on his bedside table read 4:47 AM. Perfect timing.
He sat up and stretched, noting with satisfaction that even the simple movement felt different now. Where his joints had once cracked and his muscles had protested after a night on the thin mattress, now his body felt limber and ready for action despite the inadequate bed.
"Right, then," Harry whispered to himself. "Time to start."
He pulled a sheet of parchment from beneath his pillow. Last night, after the confrontation with the Dursleys, he'd spent hours planning his summer schedule. The parchment was now filled with neat tables dividing each day into blocks of time:
5:00-6:30 AM: Physical Training
6:30-7:30 AM: Breakfast & Personal Care
7:30-12:00 PM: Magical Theory & Study
12:00-1:00 PM: Lunch
1:00-4:00 PM: Practical Analysis & Note-taking
4:00-5:00 PM: Physical Training
5:00-6:00 PM: Dinner
6:00-10:00 PM: Advanced Reading & Spell Theory
It was ambitious, but Harry felt a fire burning inside him that he'd never experienced before. Memories of helplessness—facing Quirrell, the basilisk, the dementors—fueled his determination. Never again would he rely solely on luck and last-minute rescues.
Harry slipped into the loose-fitting clothes he'd worn during Quidditch training. They were the only sportswear he owned, and even these had originally belonged to Dudley. He tied his trainers tightly and crept downstairs, wincing at every creak of the old steps that rang in his sensitive ears like thunderclaps.
The kitchen was silent and still in the pre-dawn light. Harry drank a glass of water and slipped out the back door into the garden. The morning air hit his face, bringing with it a symphony of scents: dew-covered grass, the earthy smell of garden soil, a fox that had passed through the neighborhood hours earlier, and someone's breakfast cooking two streets over.
Harry took a deep breath and began a series of stretches, recalling Oliver Wood's pre-Quidditch warm-up routine. When his muscles felt loose, he slipped through the garden gate and set off at an easy jog down Privet Drive.
The streets of Little Whinging were deserted at this hour, save for the occasional early-shift worker starting their car or a delivery van making its rounds. Harry increased his pace gradually, testing his new limits. The sensation was extraordinary. Where previously he would have been gasping for breath after a few blocks, now his breathing remained even, his legs moving with a powerful rhythm that felt as though he could maintain it indefinitely.
Harry turned onto Magnolia Road, then Wisteria Walk, creating a loop around the neighborhood. As he ran, he reflected on how his body responded. His heart rate had increased, but not dramatically. His muscles worked efficiently, without the burning sensation he'd expected. Most surprisingly, his mind felt clear and focused, cataloging every detail around him with enhanced precision.
By the time Harry returned to Number Four, he had covered nearly five miles without significant fatigue. The sun was just peeking over the horizon, bathing the identical houses in golden light. He slipped back through the garden gate, exhilarated by his first test of endurance.
Up in his room, Harry dropped to the floor and began a series of push-ups. Twenty... thirty... forty... He could have continued, but decided to pace himself. He followed with sit-ups, squats, and lunges, creating a circuit that left him pleasantly warm but not exhausted.
After a quick shower, Harry dressed in some of his better Muggle clothes—still Dudley's hand-me-downs, but the least offensive of the lot—and headed downstairs for breakfast. The Dursleys were already at the table, tensing visibly when he entered the kitchen.
"Good morning," Harry said neutrally, opening the refrigerator to inspect its contents.
Three pairs of eyes followed his movements warily. Dudley instinctively covered his plate with one arm, as if Harry might snatch his food. Vernon hid behind his newspaper, though Harry noticed his uncle hadn't turned a page in several minutes. Aunt Petunia's lips were pressed into such a thin line they had nearly disappeared.
"I'll need to go shopping today," Harry announced, finding nothing but wilted lettuce and some questionable cheese in the refrigerator. "I'll be back later this morning."
Without waiting for a response, he toasted the last two slices of bread, ate them plain, and left the kitchen. The tense silence broke the moment he was out of sight, with urgent whispers erupting between Vernon and Petunia.
"Did you see his eyes?" Petunia hissed. "They're not normal..."
"Keep your voice down," Vernon growled. "Just... just let him be. As long as he stays out of our way—"
Harry tuned out their voices, focusing instead on preparing for his shopping trip. In his room, he retrieved the money pouch and counted out fifty pounds, which seemed reasonable for groceries. He'd need to visit Gringotts eventually for more Muggle currency, but this would do for now.
The walk to the local market took fifteen minutes, during which Harry practiced filtering the sensory information bombarding him. Madam Pomfrey had suggested visualization techniques—imagining turning down a dial for sounds, or closing shutters for scents—but Harry found it worked better to focus intensely on one sensation at a time, letting the others fade into background noise.
Inside the market, Harry moved methodically through the aisles, selecting foods rich in protein and complex carbohydrates. He chose fresh vegetables, lean meats, eggs, whole grain bread, pasta, and rice. On impulse, he added a bar of dark chocolate, remembering how it had helped after his encounters with dementors.
As he waited in the checkout line, Harry found himself involuntarily cataloging details about everyone around him: the cashier's faint scent of cigarettes beneath her perfume, the elevated heartbeat of the nervous teenager buying condoms two lines over, the sour breath of the elderly man behind him who was standing uncomfortably close.
The sensory flood threatened to overwhelm him. Harry closed his eyes momentarily, recalling Professor Lupin's parting words.
"Your senses will be both a gift and a burden, Harry," Lupin had said, his eyes filled with understanding. "You'll need to train yourself to focus only on what's important. Think of it like learning Quidditch—at first, you're aware of every player, every movement. Eventually, you learn to track only what matters in the moment."
"How long did it take you to adjust?" Harry had asked.
Lupin's smile had been tinged with sadness. "Years. But I had no guidance. You have the advantage of preparation. Remember: power doesn't guarantee safety, but preparation increases survival chances."
Harry opened his eyes, focusing only on the task at hand. Pay for groceries. Gather bags. Exit store. One step at a time.
Back at Privet Drive, Harry carried his groceries to the kitchen and began organizing them in the refrigerator, claiming one shelf as his own. Aunt Petunia hovered in the doorway, watching his every move with suspicious eyes.
"I've labeled my food," Harry said without turning around. "I'd appreciate if everyone respected that."
"This is still my kitchen," Petunia said, her voice pitched higher than usual. "You can't just—"
"I'm not taking over your kitchen, Aunt Petunia," Harry interrupted calmly. "I'm just making sure I have proper nutrition. You don't have to cook for me or clean up after me. I'll handle everything myself."
He turned to face her, and she took an involuntary step backward. Harry realized his eyes must have caught the light in a way that revealed their subtle yellow glow. He blinked slowly, giving her time to compose herself.
"Consider it less work for you," he added, deliberately softening his tone.
Petunia sniffed but seemed slightly mollified by this framing. "Keep everything tidy," she said finally, before retreating to the living room.
Harry finished organizing his groceries and prepared a simple lunch of chicken sandwich with vegetables. He ate at the kitchen table, savoring the flavors with his enhanced sense of taste, before cleaning up meticulously and heading back upstairs.
The afternoon was dedicated to organizing his study materials. Harry emptied his trunk, arranging his textbooks in order of priority. Defense Against the Dark Arts books, including Lupin's gift, formed the largest stack. Next came Transfiguration and Charms texts, followed by Potions, Herbology, and other subjects.
Harry cleared space on his desk for immediate study materials and used the wobbly bookshelf for reference texts. On the wall above his desk, he pinned a calendar marking the phases of the moon, with the next full moon circled in red.
Working methodically, Harry created a system for his notes, with separate parchments for theoretical magic, practical applications, and his personal observations about his condition. He labeled everything clearly, imagining Hermione's approving nod at his organization.
Just as he finished arranging his workspace, a lawn mower roared to life across the street. Harry winced as the sound pierced his ears like physical pain. Simultaneously, the wind shifted, bringing the overpowering scent of fish being fried three houses down. His stomach lurched at the combination of sensory assaults.
Harry staggered to his bed and sat down heavily, pressing his palms against his ears. It barely helped. The sound seemed to bypass his hands entirely, drilling directly into his brain. Meanwhile, the fish smell grew stronger, joined by someone's overapplied perfume and the acrid scent of car exhaust from the main road.
Focus, Harry told himself desperately. Find one thing to concentrate on.
His eyes fell on a glass of water on his nightstand. He stared at it intently, forcing all his attention onto the simple object—the way light refracted through it, the tiny air bubbles clinging to its sides, the slight imperfections in the glass.
Gradually, the outside sensations receded. Harry's breathing steadied. The lawn mower was still running, but now it was just background noise rather than an assault. The fish smell remained, but as one scent among many rather than an overwhelming force.
When Harry felt stable again, he reached for his notebook—a simple Muggle composition book he'd purchased years ago but never used. On the first page, he wrote the date, then began his entry:
Day 1 of training:
Physical: Ran approx. 5 miles this morning. No significant fatigue. Completed 40 push-ups, 50 sit-ups, 30 squats, 20 lunges per leg. Heart rate returned to normal within 90 seconds after exercise.
Sensory: Still struggling with overload. Managed to focus through an episode this afternoon using concentration technique. Need more practice.
Study: Organized materials and created study plan. Will begin with DADA, focusing on Shield Charms and defensive hexes.
Goals for month:
1. Run 10 miles daily
2. Double strength training reps
3. Master sensory control techniques
4. Complete theoretical study of fourth-year DADA curriculum
5. Develop contingency plans for full moon
Harry paused, tapping his quill against the page. After a moment's consideration, he added one more line:
Never be helpless again.
He closed the notebook, running his fingers over its cover. This summer wouldn't just be about surviving until September 1st. It would be about transformation—becoming the wizard he needed to be to face whatever lay ahead.
Outside, the lawn mower fell silent. Harry took a deep breath and reached for Lupin's book of defensive spells. It was time to begin.
9¾
9¾
Harry was deep into his study of Shield Charms when a familiar tapping sound drew his attention to the window. A small gray owl bobbed enthusiastically outside, its tiny talons clutching what appeared to be an oversized letter for its diminutive frame.
"Pig," Harry said with a smile, recognizing Ron's hyperactive owl.
He opened the window, and Pigwidgeon zoomed in, performing three excited loops around the ceiling light before Harry managed to catch him. The tiny owl hooted indignantly as Harry carefully extracted the letter from his leg.
"Sorry, Pig, but you're making my headache worse," Harry muttered, wincing at the high-pitched hoots that seemed to pierce directly into his brain. He offered the owl a treat from Hedwig's stash, which Pigwidgeon accepted enthusiastically before zooming over to perch on Hedwig's empty cage.
Harry unfolded Ron's letter, immediately recognizing his friend's untidy scrawl:
Harry,
Hope the Muggles are treating you decent. Dad says we might be able to get you to The Burrow for the last two weeks of August! Mum's already talking about the World Cup — Dad thinks he can get tickets through work. IRELAND VS. BULGARIA! Can you believe it? Viktor Krum is playing seeker for Bulgaria. He's a genius on a broom, almost as good as you!
Fred and George have been locked in their room creating who-knows-what. Explosions every other hour. Mum's gone mental about it. Percy got a job at the Ministry in the Department of International Magical Cooperation and won't shut up about it. "Mr. Crouch says this" and "Mr. Crouch says that" — driving us all barmy.
Ginny says Hi. She's been practicing Quidditch in the orchard. Might try out for the team when Alicia graduates.
Have you heard from Hermione? She sent me a two-foot letter about summer homework! Mental, that one. Summer's for relaxing!
Write back if those Muggles let you use your quill. If not, we'll come rescue you again!
Ron
P.S. Don't tell Hermione, but I haven't started any homework yet. Don't reckon you have either?
Harry smiled, feeling a rush of affection for his best friend. Ron's letter was so normal, so refreshingly uncomplicated. No mention of werewolves or enhanced abilities or life-threatening situations—just Quidditch, family annoyances, and avoiding homework. For a moment, Harry envied Ron's ordinary summer concerns.
He set Ron's letter aside as Hedwig soared through the still-open window, carrying two letters in her beak. She landed gracefully on his desk, looking disdainfully at Pigwidgeon's excited fluttering.
"Thanks, girl," Harry said, stroking her white feathers. Unlike Pig's manic energy, Hedwig's presence was calming. He untied the letters from her leg, recognizing Hermione's neat handwriting on one and an unfamiliar scrawl on the other.
Harry opened Hermione's letter first, unsurprised to find several pages of densely-packed writing:
Dear Harry,
I hope this letter finds you well and that the Dursleys are treating you decently. I've spent the first week of summer researching our "special project" (I'm being careful with terminology, as we discussed).
How are you managing the sensory aspects (code phrase #1)? The texts suggest visualization techniques, but I wonder if you've discovered methods that work better for your specific situation. And what about the physical changes (code phrase #2)? Are you noticing continued development?
I've also been researching defense spells, as you requested. The Protego Shield is versatile, but I've found references to more specialized shields that might be worth exploring.
My parents are taking me to France next week, but I'll have owl access. Please write back with any questions or observations.
Take care of yourself, Harry. I know this must be difficult, but remember you're not alone.
Love from,
Hermione
P.S. Have you started your summer assignments? I've already completed the Transfiguration essay and am halfway through Potions.
Harry shook his head with a mixture of exasperation and gratitude.
The third letter bore no return address. Harry opened it cautiously, then broke into a grin as he recognized the handwriting from the note that had accompanied his Firebolt.
Dear Harry,
I hope this finds you well. I'm staying hidden but on the move. Don't worry about me—worry about yourself.
News travels, even to fugitives. I've heard whispers about what happened with Moony during the last full moon. He wrote to me directly, consumed with guilt. I want you to know that I understand what you're going through better than most—not the condition itself, but the sudden changes in how you experience the world.
Becoming an Animagus altered my perceptions permanently, though in subtler ways than what you're experiencing. The animal consciousness never fully leaves you once you've merged with it. The trick is integration, not suppression.
Your father found that physical exertion helped manage the heightened emotions and instincts. Prongs would run for hours in the forest when things became overwhelming. Moony found that mental discipline—particularly Occlumency techniques—helped him maintain control.
Most importantly, remember that what's happening to you is an addition to who you are, not a replacement. You're still Harry—just Harry with some extra abilities and challenges.
If your scar hurts or anything unusual happens, contact me immediately. I'll respond as quickly as possible.
Your godfather,
Snuffles
P.S. Destroy this letter after reading. Can't be too careful.
Harry read Sirius's letter twice more, absorbing every word of advice. The knowledge that both Sirius and his father had experience with altered perceptions was immensely comforting. If they could manage animal instincts and remain themselves, surely he could handle his partial lycanthropy.
He pulled out fresh parchment and began crafting his responses, starting with Ron:
Ron,
Thanks for your letter. The World Cup sounds brilliant! I've never seen a professional Quidditch match, so that would be amazing.
The Dursleys are leaving me alone this summer, actually. Had a bit of a... conversation with them when I arrived, and we've come to an understanding. I'm spending most of my time studying and exercising. Stop laughing—I know that sounds like Hermione, but I've got reasons.
Tell everyone hello from me. Hope to see you in August.
Harry
P.S. Actually, I have started my homework. Don't tell Hermione, but it's not that bad when you don't leave it all to the last day.
He moved on to Hermione's letter, choosing his words carefully:
Dear Hermione,
Thanks for the research. It's exactly what I needed.
Regarding CP#1 (sensory), it's challenging but improving. Loud noises and strong smells still overwhelm me sometimes, but I'm learning to focus on one sensation at a time to manage the overload. Yesterday, someone started a lawnmower across the street, and I thought my head would explode, but I managed to control it by concentrating on a glass of water. Strange technique, but it worked.
CP#2 (physical) continues to develop. I ran five miles this morning without getting winded. I can do push-ups and sit-ups that would have exhausted me before. It's actually quite useful, though I'm careful not to show off around the Dursleys too much.
As for CP#3 (monthly), the first one is approaching. I'm nervous but prepared with Pomfrey's potions. Your supplement recipe looks promising—I've copied it down for future reference.
I've started a journal documenting everything, which I think you'd approve of. I'm also working through defensive magic, particularly Shield Charms. Any additional resources you find would be helpful.
Enjoy France, and don't worry too much about me. I'm managing better than expected.
Harry
Finally, he composed a response to Sirius:
Dear Snuffles,
Thank you for your letter and advice. It helps to know that you and my father had experience with altered perceptions.
The Dursleys are giving me space this summer. We've reached an understanding (they stay out of my way, I stay out of theirs). I'm using the time to study defensive magic and work on controlling my new abilities.
My scar hasn't hurt recently, and there's been no sign of anything unusual beyond my new condition. I'll contact you immediately if that changes.
Stay safe,
Harry
P.S. Letter destroyed as instructed.
Harry sealed the letters and gave Ron's and Hermione's to Pigwidgeon, who zoomed around excitedly before darting out the window. Sirius's letter he entrusted to Hedwig, who gave him a dignified nip on the finger before taking flight.
After watching the owls disappear into the distance, Harry turned back to his room. He retrieved a cork bulletin board he'd rescued from Dudley's discarded possessions years ago and pinned copies of the three letters to it, positioning them alongside his study schedule and moon calendar.
Looking at the board, Harry felt a wave of connection to the wizarding world. Despite being physically isolated at Privet Drive, he wasn't truly alone. He had friends who cared, a godfather who understood, and knowledge that would help him grow stronger.
The sudden pounding on his bedroom door shattered his moment of contemplation.
"What are you doing in there, freak?" Dudley's voice came through the door. "Mum says dinner's ready, not that you deserve any."
Harry sighed and opened the door to find his cousin's pudgy face twisted in its usual sneer. For a moment, Dudley seemed to forget that things had changed, falling back into his habitual bullying posture.
"Still trying to act tough, Big D?" Harry asked mildly. "I would have thought you'd learned better yesterday."
Dudley's face flushed, but he puffed out his chest. "Dad says you're bluffing. You can't do m-magic outside school or they'll expel you."
Harry leaned against the doorframe, allowing just a hint of yellow to flash in his eyes. "Who said anything about magic? Did you miss the part where I lifted your father off the ground with one hand?"
He smiled slightly. "Besides, what I have now isn't exactly magic. More like... special talents. Want a demonstration?"
Dudley's bravado evaporated instantly. His face turned the color of curdled milk, and he backpedaled so quickly he stumbled over his own feet.
"MUM! DAD!" he wailed, turning and thundering down the stairs. "HARRY'S THREATENING ME WITH HIS FREAKISHNESS!"
Harry closed his door calmly, listening to Vernon's distant blustering and Petunia's attempts to soothe Dudley. Let them rant. As long as they maintained their distance, Harry was content to ignore their dramatics.
He turned back to his bulletin board, focusing on the letters from friends who accepted him—strange new abilities and all. For the first time since arriving at Privet Drive, Harry felt genuinely optimistic about the summer ahead.
Two Weeks Later
Two weeks passed in a blur of study and training. By early July, Harry's routine had become as natural as breathing—wake before dawn, run through the sleeping neighborhood, perform strength exercises, study magical theory, practice sensory control, and document every change in his journal.
On this particular morning, Harry returned from his run as the sun crept over the horizon. Ten miles now, double his initial distance, completed in just under an hour. He entered the house quietly, taking care not to wake the Dursleys, and headed straight for the bathroom.
As he peeled off his sweat-soaked t-shirt, Harry caught his reflection in the mirror and paused. The changes were undeniable now. His shoulders had broadened, and lean muscle defined his once-skinny arms. His chest and abdomen showed the sculpted results of hundreds of push-ups and sit-ups. Even his face had changed subtly—the childish roundness replaced by sharper angles along his jaw and cheekbones.
"Bloody hell," Harry murmured, turning to examine his profile. He barely recognized himself. The scrawny, underfed boy who had arrived at Hogwarts three years ago had vanished, replaced by someone who looked like he could hold his own in a fight without a wand.
Most notable were the four parallel scars across his chest—silvery white against his skin, a permanent reminder of the night everything changed. Harry traced them with his fingertips, remembering Lupin's tortured expression when he'd first seen what he'd done to his best friend's son.
After a quick shower, Harry returned to his room and consulted his training journal. Today's schedule called for precision exercises—the area where he struggled most. Enhanced strength was useful only if he could control it.
He retrieved a set of Dudley's abandoned building blocks from the cupboard under the stairs. They weren't ideal, but they would serve his purpose. Back in his room, Harry arranged the wooden blocks on his desk and began the painstaking task of building a tower, one block at a time.
The first few blocks were simple enough. But as the tower grew taller, the challenge increased. Harry found himself holding his breath as he placed each block, trying to modulate the pressure of his fingers. Too much force and the block would crush; too little control and the tower would topple.
On the seventh block, disaster struck. A car backfired on Privet Drive, the sound slamming into Harry's ears like a physical blow. His hand jerked reflexively, sending the tower crashing down. Worse, the block in his hand splintered, a large crack running through its center.
"Dammit," Harry muttered, dropping the damaged block onto his desk.
This wasn't the first object he'd broken since his transformation. In the past two weeks, he'd snapped three quills, cracked a glass, torn the handle off his wardrobe door, and crushed a doorknob when Vernon had made a particularly nasty comment about "his sort."
Harry took a deep breath and rebuilt the tower, forcing himself to slow down. This time, he incorporated a meditation technique he'd discovered in one of the books Hermione had referenced. As he worked, he focused on his breathing—four counts in, hold for seven, out for eight. The rhythm helped steady his hands and calm his mind.
By mid-morning, Harry could build a twelve-block tower without incident. Progress, but not enough. He needed finer control for delicate tasks like potion-making.
Next, he moved to a more challenging exercise. From his trunk, Harry retrieved a set of glass phials that had survived the school year. He arranged them in a row on his desk and practiced transferring water between them using a dropper, counting exact numbers of drops.
"One... two... three..." Harry whispered, carefully squeezing the rubber bulb. Each drop had to be precise—not too large, not too small. After thirty minutes, his fingers ached from the concentration, but his control had improved markedly.
Just as Harry finished the exercise, thunderous footsteps in the hallway announced Dudley's approach. Harry tensed automatically, then forced himself to relax. Dudley had been giving him a wide berth since their encounter two weeks ago.
The footsteps paused outside Harry's door. After a moment's hesitation, a tentative knock followed.
Harry raised an eyebrow in surprise. Dudley never knocked.
"It's open," he called.
The door creaked open just enough for Dudley to stick his head through. His small eyes darted around the room nervously before settling on Harry.
"Mum says lunch is ready," Dudley mumbled. "She said to tell you."
Harry hid his surprise. This was new—Petunia actually acknowledging his need for food rather than expecting him to fend for himself.
"Thanks, I'll be down in a minute," Harry replied.
Dudley lingered in the doorway, clearly struggling with curiosity despite his fear. His gaze fixed on the line of phials on Harry's desk.
"What's that? Some kind of fr—" Dudley caught himself before finishing the word "freakishness." "Some kind of magic stuff?"
"Just an exercise," Harry said, deciding there was no harm in explaining. "I'm working on controlling my strength."
Dudley's eyes widened slightly. "You mean... from the... the werewolf thing?"
Harry stiffened. He hadn't realized Dudley knew the source of his changes. Apparently, the Dursleys had been discussing him behind closed doors.
"It's not exactly a werewolf thing," Harry clarified. "But yes, I'm stronger now. I need to make sure I don't break things accidentally."
Dudley shifted uncomfortably. "Like... how strong are you?"
Harry considered the question. "I don't know exactly. Strong enough that I have to be careful."
To demonstrate, Harry picked up a pencil from his desk and held it between his thumb and forefinger. With the slightest pressure, the pencil snapped cleanly in half.
Dudley's face paled. He took an involuntary step backward.
"That's why I'm practicing," Harry explained, keeping his voice casual. "I don't want to break things—or hurt people—by accident."
Something shifted in Dudley's expression—not quite understanding, but perhaps a glimmer of it.
"Right," Dudley mumbled. "Well... lunch is ready." He retreated quickly, pulling the door shut behind him.
Harry listened to his cousin's footsteps thundering down the stairs. That interaction had been almost civil by Dursley standards. Perhaps fear was finally teaching them manners.
After lunch—a solitary affair in the kitchen after the Dursleys had finished—Harry returned to his room and continued his precision exercises. By late afternoon, he'd graduated from water drops to sorting grains of rice with tweezers, a maddening task that required microscopic control of his enhanced strength.
As the sun began to set, Harry took a break to stretch his cramped fingers. He stood and moved to the small mirror hanging on his wardrobe door, studying his reflection once more.
The physical changes were impressive, certainly. In just two weeks, he'd transformed his body more dramatically than months of Quidditch practice had ever accomplished. But then his eyes went to the one thing that would never leave him.
Harry traced the lightning scar with his fingertip. No matter how much stronger he became, no matter how his body transformed, this mark remained constant—a reminder of his true purpose and the real battles that lay ahead.
Voldemort was still out there.
"Getting stronger is just the beginning," Harry told his reflection quietly. "Voldemort won't care if I can run ten miles or do a hundred push-ups."
He picked up Lupin's defensive magic book from his desk and flipped it open to the chapter on counter-curses.
"This is what will make the difference," he murmured, running his fingers over the pages.
9¾
9¾
Harry paced his small bedroom like a caged animal, three steps one way, pivot, three steps back. The digital clock on his nightstand read 2:17 AM, but sleep remained as elusive as a Snitch in heavy fog. Outside, the waxing gibbous moon hung fat in the night sky—three days until full.
"Bloody hell," he muttered, running fingers through his already disheveled hair.
His skin felt too tight, like something underneath was pushing to get out. Energy thrummed through his veins, making his fingers tap restlessly against his thigh. The potions Madam Pomfrey had given him sat in their case on his desk—he'd been rationing them carefully, knowing they needed to last all summer.
Harry dropped to the floor and began doing push-ups, hoping physical exertion might drain some of the restless energy coursing through him. One... two... twenty... fifty... one hundred. He barely broke a sweat. Flipping onto his back, he started sit-ups.
The faint squeak of a garden gate made him freeze mid-motion. His nostrils flared as he caught a scent drifting through his partially open window. Jasmine shampoo. Strawberry lip gloss. The subtle musk of female skin warmed by summer heat.
In one move, Harry was at the window. Two houses down, Mr. Polkiss's seventeen-year-old daughter Emily was sneaking home, her blonde hair catching the streetlight as she tip-toed up her garden path. Harry's pupils dilated as he tracked her movement, his senses registering details no normal human could detect: the slight elevation in her heartbeat, the lingering scent of cigarette smoke and beer on her clothes, the faint smell of a boy's cologne on her neck, her beautiful ass, and the way her breasts pressed against her...
"Fuck," Harry growled, jerking back from the window, disgusted with himself. This wasn't him—this predatory awareness, this animal response to human proximity. He pressed his forehead against the cool wall, breathing deeply to regain control.
He squeezed his eyes shut, but that only made things worse. Instead of Emily, his mind conjured Hermione—not the bookish friend who'd spent three years by his side, but something else entirely. He remembered how she'd smelled on the train. Cinnamon and parchment and something uniquely her. He remembered the soft press of her lips against his cheek, innocently given but now twisted by his moon-addled brain into something else.
Harry imagined her here in his room, brown eyes wide and curious. In his mind, she stepped closer, reaching out to trace the scars on his chest, her fingers trailing fire on his skin.
"I've been researching your condition, Harry," dream-Hermione whispered, her voice husky in a way the real Hermione's never was. "There are aspects of lycanthropy the books don't mention."
His fantasy shifted, grew more explicit. Her hand moving lower, past his navel, hesitating at the waistband of his pajama bottoms. Her teeth catching her bottom lip in that way she did when contemplating a particularly challenging problem. Only now, the problem was him. The heat in her eyes as she tugged downward, releasing his already hardening cock from its confines.
In this forbidden fantasy, Hermione's eyes widened, her pupils dilating with hunger that matched his own. "I've never seen one before," she whispered, her scholarly curiosity transforming into something more carnal. "May I touch it?"
Without waiting for an answer, fantasy-Hermione wrapped her delicate fingers around his shaft, the contrast between her soft hand and his hard flesh making Harry groan. She stroked experimentally, her movements awkward at first, then increasingly confident as she gauged his reactions.
"The books didn't prepare me for this," she murmured, lowering herself to her knees. Her breath ghosted over his sensitive tip, making it twitch in anticipation. "I suppose some things require practical research."
Harry's imagination grew vivid, enhanced by his lycanthropic senses. He could almost feel the warm wetness of her mouth as she took him between her lips, the slight scrape of teeth, the determined hum in her throat as she applied herself to this new challenge with the same dedication she showed her studies. In his mind, her bushy hair was twisted in his fingers, her brown eyes looking up at him with a mixture of submission and control that only Hermione could achieve.
"Hermione," he groaned, his fantasy so real he could almost taste her name on his tongue. His hand moved unconsciously to his pajama bottoms, his body responding to the vivid imagery playing behind his closed eyelids.
The soft sucking sounds, the little moans she might make, the way her tongue would swirl around his—
"Stop it!" Harry barked at himself, voice echoing in his empty room. He shook his head violently, disgusted with the direction of his thoughts. "She's your friend, you perverted git."
His body was fully aroused now, painfully so, but he refused to give in to it. Harry forced himself to picture Snape in a bathing suit, McGonagall doing ballet, anything to drive away the inappropriate images of his best friend.
He stalked to his desk and yanked open the potion case, hands trembling slightly. Inside, twelve vials were arranged in neat rows, labeled in Madam Pomfrey's precise handwriting. He selected one marked "Pre-lunar Calming Draught" and uncorked it, the scent of lavender and valerian root filling his nostrils.
"Bottom's up," he muttered, downing the bitter liquid in one gulp.
The effect wasn't immediate, but within minutes, he felt the restless energy begin to subside. His heartrate slowed. The room stopped feeling so claustrophobic. The uncomfortable tightness in his pajamas gradually eased. Harry sagged onto the edge of his bed, head in his hands.
"Some bloody hero," he whispered into the darkness. "Can't even control your own thoughts."
He reached under his loose floorboard and pulled out the latest letter from Hermione. Her handwriting was as neat and precise as ever, pages filled with her research findings and genuine concern.
...the books suggest that emotional control is particularly difficult in the days preceding the full moon. Professor Lupin once mentioned to me that isolation during this period often makes symptoms worse. I wish you weren't alone with those dreadful Dursleys right now...
Harry's throat tightened. She'd signed it Love from Hermione, as she always did. Nothing had changed for her. But everything had changed for him.
A soft hoot drew his attention to Hedwig's cage. His owl watched him with amber eyes that seemed unnervingly knowing.
"Don't judge me," Harry told her with a weak smile. "You're not the one turning into a monster."
Hedwig clicked her beak in what sounded remarkably like disagreement.
"Fine. Not a complete monster," Harry amended. He crossed to her cage and stroked her feathers through the bars. "But something's happening to me, Hedwig. Something I don't understand."
The owl leaned into his touch, offering what comfort she could.
Three more nights until the full moon. Three more nights of fighting this internal battle.
He glanced at his reflection in the glass—his eyes momentarily flashing gold in the growing light.
"I'm still me," Harry whispered to his reflection, a fierce determination hardening his features. "I'm still Harry Potter."
Outside, the moon began to fade as the sun climbed higher. Harry watched it disappear, feeling a momentary reprieve. He would master this, just as he'd mastered the Patronus charm. Just as he'd survived everything else life had thrown at him.
When the moon rose again tonight, he would be ready.
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