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The morning light filtering through the Hospital Wing windows felt like needles stabbing into Harry's retinas. He squinted against the glare, raising a hand to shield his eyes from what should have been just ordinary sunshine. Three days after being scratched by Professor Lupin, and his senses still hadn't settled.
"Too bright?" Madam Pomfrey asked, noticing his discomfort as she approached his bed with a tray of potions.
"Everything's too... everything," Harry admitted, wincing as the clatter of a dropped bedpan from the far end of the wing rang in his ears like a church bell.
Madam Pomfrey nodded knowingly. "That's to be expected. Your senses are approximately three times more acute than an average wizard's now. It will take time to adjust."
Harry focused on a conversation happening in the corridor outside the Hospital Wing, between Professor McGonagall and a student who was apparently trying to get out of their Transfiguration final. He could hear every word as clearly as if they were standing beside his bed.
"...but Professor, my emotional state after the Dementor attacks makes it impossible to concentrate on turning hedgehogs into pincushions!"
"Miss Edgecombe, unless you've been personally subjected to a Dementor's Kiss, I expect to see you in the examination hall at nine o'clock sharp..."
"They're outside in the corridor," Harry said absently. "Professor McGonagall isn't buying Marietta Edgecombe's excuse about Dementors affecting her ability to take exams."
Madam Pomfrey's eyebrows rose. "That's nearly thirty meters away, Mr. Potter. And through solid oak doors." She made a note on her clipboard. "What else are you experiencing?"
Harry closed his eyes, immediately regretting it as his other senses intensified to compensate. "I can smell... disinfectant, obviously. The pain potion you're brewing in your office—something with essence of murtlap?"
She handed him a vial containing a silvery-blue liquid that reminded Harry of unicorn blood, though less viscous.
"This sensory-dampening potion will make your condition manageable," she explained. "One dose each morning should mute things to near-normal levels. Without it, you'll continue experiencing sensory overload, which can lead to migraines, disorientation, even blackouts in extreme cases."
Harry eyed the potion warily. "Will it... take away the enhancements completely?"
"No, just bring them down to a functional level. You'll still hear, see, and smell better than your peers, but you won't be driven to distraction by it." She watched him with clinical interest. "Are you concerned about losing these new abilities, Mr. Potter?"
Harry hesitated, then nodded. "It feels like... an advantage. Something I might need."
Her expression softened slightly. "A natural response. Many with your condition become protective of their enhanced senses, even when they're disruptive. The potion won't eliminate your advantages, just make them bearable. Think of it as turning down the volume, not switching off the wireless entirely."
From across the room, Ron's voice called out, "Is that Harry's super-werewolf potion? Will it stop him from punching through walls and stuff?"
Harry glanced over to see Ron sitting up in his bed, his splinted leg now fully healed but still wrapped in supportive bandages. His friend was grinning ear to ear, clearly delighted by what Hermione had told him about Harry's transformation.
"It's not a super-werewolf potion, Mr. Weasley," Madam Pomfrey replied dryly. "And I would appreciate if you wouldn't shout about Mr. Potter's condition where anyone could hear."
"Sorry," Ron stage-whispered, not looking sorry at all. "But seriously, Harry, Hermione told me how you knocked Professor Lupin flying with one punch! That's bloody brilliant!"
"Language, Mr. Weasley," Madam Pomfrey scolded, but Harry detected a hint of amusement in her tone.
Harry uncorked the potion and downed it in one gulp, bracing for an unpleasant taste. To his surprise, it tasted faintly of mint and something wild he couldn't identify—perhaps rainwater on forest leaves. Almost immediately, the world dimmed around him—not in a frightening way, but as though someone had adjusted an overwhelmingly bright light to a comfortable level.
The distant conversations faded to a barely perceptible murmur. The smell of potions and disinfectant receded to normal levels. Most notably, the painful sensitivity to light vanished, allowing Harry to look directly at the sunlit windows without squinting.
"Better?" Madam Pomfrey asked, watching his reaction closely.
"Much," Harry admitted, feeling a contradictory sense of relief and loss. Part of him had reveled in the heightened awareness, despite the discomfort. "It's like... coming inside after being caught in a thunderstorm. Everything's calmer."
"A poetic description," she remarked, sounding faintly surprised. "Now, speaking of potions, we need to discuss your monthly supply."
Harry felt heat rise to his face as he remembered the other aspect of his condition—the one they'd discussed in mortifying detail after Hermione had been asked to leave.
Madam Pomfrey opened a small wooden case lined with velvet. Inside were seven vials containing a swirling violet-colored liquid with those same silver specks he'd noticed in the first sample she'd shown him.
"This is a month's supply of the hormone-regulating potion," she explained, her clinical tone returning. "One week before your first full moon at home. Remember, three days before, the day of, and three days after. The full moon is July 21st this summer, so mark your calendar accordingly."
"What happens if I... forget?" Harry asked, dreading the answer.
"Your inherent aggressiveness will increase, along with your sexual urges we discussed." Her matter-of-fact tone somehow made it worse. "Nothing catastrophic, but certainly uncomfortable for a young man in your position. Particularly around young women." She said it quietly, not wanting Ron to hear what they were saying.
Harry wanted to sink through the floor. "Great," he muttered.
"I've also included instructions for brewing a simple version yourself, should you run out," she continued, apparently oblivious to his discomfort. "The ingredients are common enough that you could find them in a Muggle pharmacy or grocery, though they won't be as effective as the magical components."
From across the room, Ron called out again, "What kind of potion is that? More super-strength stuff?"
"Mind your own potions, Mr. Weasley," Madam Pomfrey replied firmly, closing the case and handing it to Harry. "This is private medical information."
She turned back to Harry, lowering her voice. "I've informed your relatives about your... condition."
"You what?" Harry nearly dropped the case in shock.
"Only the basic medical requirements," she assured him. "They've been told you're recovering from a magical accident that requires daily medication. Nothing about lycanthropy or its effects."
Harry relaxed slightly. The Dursleys would probably prefer not to ask questions anyway.
"One final warning, Mr. Potter," Madam Pomfrey said, her expression deadly serious. "Your first full moon will be challenging, even with the potion. You'll feel urges and impulses that may be confusing or frightening. Without magical supervision, you must be extra vigilant. Stay in your room if possible. Avoid situations that might... provoke your condition."
"Provoke?" Harry repeated uneasily.
She sighed. "Young women, Mr. Potter. Particularly any you might already feel attracted to. Your condition will significantly amplify those feelings, and your first cycle will be the most intense as your body adjusts."
Harry nodded miserably, imagining being locked in his room at Privet Drive, trying to explain to Uncle Vernon why he couldn't come out for days.
"On a more positive note," Madam Pomfrey added, her tone lightening slightly, "your accelerated healing means you're fully recovered from injuries that would have kept an ordinary wizard bedridden for weeks. Silver linings, Mr. Potter."
She straightened up, returning to her professional demeanor. "You're free to go. Both of you," she added, glancing at Ron. "Mr. Weasley, your leg is healed, but don't overexert it for at least another day."
As Harry gathered his things and tucked the potion case deep in his bag, Ron hobbled over, testing his weight on his newly-healed leg.
"So," Ron whispered, grinning, "Hermione told me everything. Half-werewolf Harry Potter, the strongest wizard in school! Can you really smell Dementors from a mile away?"
"Keep your voice down," Harry hissed, though he couldn't help but smile at Ron's enthusiasm. "And no, not a mile. Maybe a few hundred meters, at most."
Ron looked suitably impressed. "Wicked. So what else can you do? Besides punching professors into trees? Can we try that with Snape?"
Harry slung his bag over his shoulder, feeling the weight of the potion case like a reminder of the price of his new abilities. "Nothing I can show off in the middle of the Hospital Wing. Come on, let's get out of here before Pomfrey finds a reason to keep us longer."
As they headed for the door, Harry cast one last glance back at the bed where he'd woken to the news that had forever changed him. He wasn't just The Boy Who Lived anymore. He was something else—something both more and less than human.
And he still had no idea what that would mean.
9¾
9¾
Harry made his way through the castle corridors toward the Defense Against the Dark Arts office. His footsteps felt different somehow—lighter, more precise. He found himself unconsciously avoiding the creaky floorboards he'd never consciously mapped before.
As he rounded a corner, a group of first-year Hufflepuffs huddled together, their whispered conversation halting abruptly when they spotted him. One girl's eyes widened before she quickly looked away. Another boy tugged at his friend's sleeve, urging him to move along faster.
"Did you hear what Snape said about Professor Lupin?"
"But what about Potter? They say he was there when—"
"Shh! He'll hear you!"
The fragments of their conversation reached Harry's ears despite their lowered voices. He pretended not to notice, but something inside him bristled at their fearful glances.
More whispers followed him down the corridor. Word of Lupin's condition—and perhaps hints of Harry's involvement in the night's events—had clearly spread through the school like wildfire. Snape had seen to that.
When Harry finally reached the Defense Against the Dark Arts office, he found the door ajar. He knocked lightly, then pushed it open.
Professor Lupin stood amid the controlled chaos of packing. Books flew from shelves into an open trunk, while various magical instruments carefully wrapped themselves in cloth before nestling into wooden crates. The grindylow tank that had once burbled peacefully in the corner stood empty, water marks still visible on the glass. The office that had always felt so welcoming now carried an air of defeat.
Lupin looked up, his face pale and drawn. The scratches across his face from his night as a werewolf were still visible, though beginning to fade. His eyes, however, carried a weariness that no healing spell could touch.
"Harry," he said, offering a tired smile. "I wondered if you might stop by."
"Professor Snape told everyone at breakfast," Harry said without preamble. "About you being a werewolf."
Lupin nodded, carefully placing a silver instrument into a padded box. "Yes, I expected as much. By this time tomorrow, the owls will start arriving. Parents won't want..." he paused, "well, someone like me teaching their children."
"That's ridiculous!" Harry protested. "You're the best Defense teacher we've ever had!"
"That's kind of you to say, but the fact remains." Lupin gestured to a chair. "Please, sit down. There's something we need to discuss."
Harry sat, watching as Lupin performed a quick silencing charm on the door before settling into the chair opposite him.
"Harry, I can't begin to tell you how sorry I am," Lupin said, his voice thick with emotion. "What happened that night—what I did to you—it's unforgivable."
"It wasn't your fault," Harry insisted. "You forgot the potion because of everything that was happening with Sirius and Pettigrew."
"A mistake that cost you dearly." Lupin leaned forward, eyes haunted. "I've spent my entire life ensuring I would never pass this affliction to another human being. And then, in one moment of carelessness..."
"I'm not a full werewolf though," Harry said quietly. "Madam Pomfrey explained everything."
"No, not a full transformation, thank Merlin for that small mercy." Lupin ran a hand over his face. "But partial lycanthropy brings its own challenges, Harry. You've already noticed the enhanced senses, the physical changes."
Harry nodded. "Everything feels... sharper. Like I've been seeing the world through foggy glasses until now."
"Your magic will be affected as well," Lupin continued. "Spells channeled through intense emotion—particularly defensive magic—will become more powerful. But control may be more difficult, especially around the full moon."
"Is that why my Patronus was so strong against the Dementors?"
"Precisely. The wolf aspect within you responds to threats with protective ferocity." Lupin's expression softened. "Your father was the same way, even without lycanthropy. Fiercely protective of those he loved."
Harry perked up at the mention of his father. "You've never really told me much about him. Just that you were friends."
Lupin's smile turned wistful. "James was... complicated. Brilliant, loyal to a fault, but also arrogant and sometimes cruel, especially in our earlier years. He and Sirius could be quite the bullies when the mood struck them."
Harry's brow furrowed. "Bullies?"
"People change, Harry. James grew into a better man—largely because of your mother's influence." Lupin sighed. "The point is, even the best of us have our darkness. What matters is the choices we make when confronted with that darkness."
He fixed Harry with a penetrating look. "Which brings me to an important question: What did you learn from that night by the Shrieking Shack?"
Harry considered for a moment. "That I need to be stronger," he said finally. "If I'd known more defensive magic, maybe I could have stopped Pettigrew from escaping."
Lupin nodded thoughtfully. "Not the answer I expected, but an honest one." He leaned back in his chair. "But remember this, Harry: power alone doesn't guarantee safety, but preparation increases survival chances. The most dangerous wizard isn't necessarily the most powerful, but the most prepared."
"Will you teach me?" Harry asked suddenly. "Even if you're leaving?"
"I can correspond with you," Lupin offered, a small smile playing at his lips. "About both defensive magic and... your condition. I've had decades of experience managing it, after all."
He stood up, crossing to a bookshelf and selecting a small, leather-bound volume. "This contains practical defensive spells beyond what's taught in the standard curriculum. Consider it a head start on next year."
Harry accepted the book, feeling the weight of it in his hands. "Thank you, Professor."
"I'm not your professor anymore, Harry. You can call me Remus." He hesitated, then added, "I knew both your parents very well, you know. And just now, I could see them both in you—James in your determination to become stronger, and Lily in your capacity for forgiveness, even toward the person who altered your life forever."
Harry felt a lump form in his throat. "I don't blame you. I could never blame you."
"And that, Harry," Lupin said softly, "is what makes you exceptional—far beyond any extraordinary abilities you may have gained." He extended his hand. "Write to me. Any time. Day or night."
9¾
9¾
The Great Hall buzzed with excitement as students gathered for the end-of-year feast. Floating candles cast a warm glow over the four long tables, golden plates and goblets gleaming in anticipation of the forthcoming banquet. For most students, it was a joyous occasion—the culmination of another year at Hogwarts.
For Harry Potter, it was an exercise in self-control.
He sat at the Gryffindor table, wedged between Ron and Neville, trying not to wince as every clink of cutlery, burst of laughter, and whispered conversation hammered against his eardrums. His morning potion had worn off hours ago, and the sensory assault was nearly overwhelming.
"You alright, mate?" Ron asked through a mouthful of bread roll he'd snagged early. "You look like you're about to be sick."
"Fine," Harry muttered, rubbing his temples. "Just a headache."
But it wasn't just the noise. It was the smells—hundreds of them, layered and distinct. The feast hadn't even appeared yet, but Harry could detect the roast beef, mashed potatoes, and treacle tart being prepared in the kitchens below. More disconcerting, however, were the human scents surrounding him.
He could smell Seamus's faint hint of gunpowder, Dean's art supplies, Neville's herbology soil—but it was the female students that were causing him the most discomfort. Each seemed to carry a distinct signature that his new senses found... distracting. Lavender's floral perfume, Parvati's jasmine-scented hair oil, Ginny's apple-tinged shampoo...
And then there was Hermione, sitting across from him. Her scent was subtle—parchment, ink, and something warm and honeyed that made his pulse quicken. Harry shifted uncomfortably, suddenly understanding with horrifying clarity what Madam Pomfrey had meant about "monthly urges."
"Harry?" Hermione's voice cut through his thoughts, concern evident in her expression. "Are you sure you're feeling well? You've been staring at the table for five minutes straight."
Harry looked up to find her watching him intently, her brow furrowed in that characteristic way that meant she was analyzing a particularly complex problem. He realized with a jolt that the problem was him.
"Just thinking," he deflected, forcing a smile.
"Probably mourning Lupin's departure," Ron said, oblivious to the undercurrents. "Still can't believe Snape outed him like that. Greasy git."
"I know," Neville chimed in. "Professor Lupin was brilliant. Remember that boggart lesson?"
The conversation flowed around him as the Gryffindors reminisced about their favorite Defense Against the Dark Arts moments, none of them aware of how fundamentally Harry had changed. To them, he was still just Harry—maybe a bit pale, a bit distracted, but essentially unchanged from the boy who had begun the year with them.
Only Hermione's eyes held that knowing look, carefully monitoring his every reaction.
The chatter died down as Dumbledore rose to his feet at the head table. The headmaster's bright blue eyes swept over the assembled students, lingering for just a moment on Harry before he spread his arms in welcome.
"Another year gone!" Dumbledore announced, his voice carrying effortlessly through the hall. "And what a year it has been! Minds have been filled with knowledge—or at least, I hope they have—and soon enough, they will be emptied a bit as summer commences."
Laughter rippled through the crowd. Harry tried to focus on Dumbledore's words, but fragments of other conversations kept filtering through.
"—can't believe they're letting werewolves teach us—"
"—my father says Dumbledore's gone senile—"
"—Potter was there that night, I heard—"
Harry's gaze snapped toward the Slytherin table where Malfoy was holding court, his pale, pointed face animated as he spoke to Crabbe and Goyle.
"—wouldn't be surprised if he was in on it with that mangy beast," Malfoy was saying. "Father always said Potter was Dumbledore's pet project. Probably covering up what really happened that night."
Harry's hands clenched into fists beneath the table. He could feel his heartbeat quickening, a sudden rush of heat flooding through his veins. Part of him wanted to vault across the tables and punch Malfoy in the face, so what if that would shatter all his teeth, and maybe his face as well.
A warm touch on his forearm snapped him back to reality.
Hermione had reached across the table, her fingers gently but firmly wrapped around his wrist. Her touch sent a different kind of warmth through him—not the fiery rage of moments before, but something steadier, calmer.
"Don't," she whispered, eyes locked with his. "He's not worth it."
The tension drained from Harry's body, his clenched fist relaxing under her touch. The strange anger receded like a wave pulling back from shore, leaving him confused at its intensity—and equally confused by Hermione's effect on him.
"Did you hear me, Harry?" she asked softly.
"Yeah," he managed. "Thanks."
She kept her hand on his arm a moment longer, then withdrew it slowly, her cheeks coloring slightly as she glanced away.
"—and so," Dumbledore was concluding, "as you depart for summer holidays, remember that what we learn in the darkest times often illuminates our brightest futures."
Harry could have sworn the headmaster's twinkling gaze rested on him for a significant moment.
The tables suddenly groaned under the weight of appearing platters—roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, buttered peas, mashed potatoes, and gravy boats steaming with rich sauce. The aromas hit Harry like a physical wave, momentarily distracting him from all other thoughts.
As the feast progressed, Harry picked at his food, his mind drifting back over the chaotic year. Dementors at the Quidditch match. Sirius Black's revelations. Pettigrew's escape. Lupin's transformation. And now, his own altered existence.
He glanced across at Hermione, who was delicately cutting a piece of roast beef while explaining something about Ancient Runes to Ginny. Even with all that had happened, she remained steadfast. He recalled how she'd stayed by his side in the Hospital Wing, how she'd researched his condition without being asked, how her touch had just now pulled him back from the edge of something dangerous.
"Are you going to eat that?" Ron asked, eyeing Harry's barely-touched treacle tart.
Harry pushed the plate toward his friend. "All yours."
Ron grinned, digging in with enthusiasm. Normality. His best mate still had that, at least.
As for Harry, he knew the coming summer would be anything but normal. There would be no Madam Pomfrey to provide potions, no Dumbledore to offer cryptic wisdom, no Lupin to guide him through the complexities of his condition. At the Dursleys, he would be on his own with this new aspect of himself.
He took a deep breath, drawing in the comforting scents of Hogwarts—old stone, candle wax, friendship, and safety. With quiet determination, Harry made a promise to himself. This summer wouldn't just be about surviving the Dursleys; it would be about understanding what he had become. About learning to control these new urges and abilities rather than being controlled by them.
After all, if Harry Potter had learned anything in three years at Hogwarts, it was that the most unexpected changes often concealed the greatest opportunities. And as his gaze met Hermione's concerned eyes across the table, he felt a flicker of something surprisingly like hope.
9¾
9¾
Sunlight streamed through the arched windows of Hogwarts' third-floor corridor, creating pools of golden light on the ancient stone floor. Harry and Hermione walked side by side, their footsteps echoing in the relative quiet of the castle's last full day before summer holidays. Most students were outside enjoying the perfect June weather or in their dormitories packing, leaving the corridors blissfully empty.
Harry was grateful for the reprieve. After the sensory assault of the previous night's feast, the calm emptiness felt like a balm to his still-adjusting senses.
"You're looking better today," Hermione observed, clutching a small stack of books to her chest. "Did you take another dose of the potion?"
Harry nodded. "This morning. Pomfrey says I'll need to take progressively less as my body adapts."
"That matches what I found," Hermione said, her tone shifting into what Harry had mentally labeled her 'research voice.' "I've been doing some reading on your... condition."
"Of course you have," Harry said with a small smile. It was so quintessentially Hermione—faced with an unprecedented magical condition affecting her best friend, her first instinct had been to hit the books.
Hermione pulled them into an alcove beneath a suit of armor, glancing around to ensure they were truly alone before withdrawing a small, leather-bound journal from her bag.
"I've been compiling notes," she explained, flipping it open to reveal pages of her neat handwriting, complete with color-coded headings and cross-references. "Most texts on lycanthropy focus exclusively on full transformations, but I found some obscure references in Magical Maladies and Misfortunes and Partial Transformative Contagions: A Healer's Guide."
Harry blinked. "How did you even get access to those?"
"Professor McGonagall gave me a note for the Restricted Section," Hermione replied, waving away his question as if it were inconsequential. "The important thing is that partial lycanthropy, while rare, isn't completely undocumented."
"Great," Harry said flatly. "I'm a medical curiosity."
"More like an understudied magical phenomenon," Hermione corrected, her eyes bright with academic enthusiasm. "From what I've gathered, your condition should stabilize within three to six months. The enhanced senses, strength, and reflexes will remain, but they'll become... integrated, I suppose. Less overwhelming."
She flipped to another page. "Your magical core is also undergoing changes. Werewolves—and by extension, those with partial lycanthropy—channel magic differently than ordinary wizards. Connected to emotion rather than technique."
"That explains why my Patronus was so powerful," Harry murmured.
"Exactly!" Hermione beamed. "Defensive magic in particular will come more naturally to you now. It's tied to protection and survival instincts."
They resumed walking, Hermione continuing her explanation in hushed tones. Harry marveled at how she could make something as terrifying as his transformation sound like an intriguing academic subject rather than a life-altering affliction.
"I've been thinking about the summer," Hermione continued, mercifully changing the subject. "I can continue researching while you're at the Dursleys. My parents are taking me to France for two weeks, but their medical library at university might have some texts on transformative conditions from a scientific perspective."
"You'd do that? During your holiday?"
"Of course I would," she said, looking almost offended that he'd question it. "What kind of friend would I be if I didn't?"
Harry felt a rush of gratitude so intense it nearly overwhelmed him. "Thanks, Hermione. I don't know what I'd do without you."
She smiled, then sobered. "What about the Dursleys? Are you worried about them noticing changes?"
Harry ran a hand through his unruly hair. "Yeah, actually. I mean, they generally try to pretend I don't exist, but if I start lifting furniture one-handed or growling at the neighbor's dog..."
"You need to be very careful," said Hermione, seriously. "The Ministry already has reasons to watch you closely. If they detect unusual magic or behavior..."
"I know. I'll be careful." He sighed. "It's just one more thing to hide."
They turned a corner into the Transfiguration corridor, which was lined with shelves displaying various teaching aids—partially transformed objects, models of animal-to-inanimate transformations, and stacks of advanced texts.
"Harry, I think it wouldn't hurt if you-"
Her words cut off as a large textbook from the top shelf suddenly tipped forward. Without conscious thought, Harry's hand shot out, catching the heavy tome mid-fall with such speed that the motion blurred.
Hermione froze, her mouth slightly open.
"What?" Harry asked, confused by her expression as he casually placed the book back on the shelf.
"Harry," she said slowly, "I didn't even see that book move until you were already holding it."
He blinked, only now realizing what had happened. "Oh."
"That was... incredible," Hermione breathed, her eyes wide. "Your reflexes must be at least three times faster than normal. May I...?" She gestured toward his arm.
Bemused, Harry extended his arm. Hermione grasped his wrist, turning it over with clinical interest, her fingers pressing gently as if testing the muscle density.
"Fascinating," she murmured. "The musculature feels denser, more defined. And your reaction time..." She released his arm, her expression alight with scientific curiosity. "We should document this properly. Reaction tests, strength assessments—"
"Hermione," Harry interrupted, suppressing a laugh. "Are you suggesting you use me as a research project?"
She had the grace to look slightly embarrassed. "Not a project, exactly. More like a case study." At his raised eyebrow, she hastily added, "For your benefit! The more we understand, the better we can help you manage the condition."
"I know," he said gently. "And I appreciate it. Really."
They resumed walking, coming to a stop by a window overlooking the lake. The Giant Squid lazily waved a tentacle above the surface, basking in the summer sunshine.
Hermione studied him for a moment, and Harry had the distinct impression she knew he was holding something back. But she merely nodded, tucking her notebook away.
"I'll write often," she promised. "And if anything unusual happens—anything at all—you must tell me immediately."
"I will," Harry assured her, touched by her concern.
As they turned to head back toward Gryffindor Tower, Harry felt a curious mixture of dread and hope about the coming summer. The Dursleys would be as unpleasant as ever, but this time, he had no reason to listen to them, usually he had no choice, but this time, he had his new found strength, and he was sure the Minister of Magic couldn't detect that, and one more thing that improved his mood was the thought of Hermione helping him.
"Hermione?" he said suddenly, stopping in the middle of the corridor.
"Yes?"
"Thank you. Not just for the research, but for... not looking at me differently. For still seeing me as just Harry."
Her expression softened. "You are still just Harry," she said firmly. "Just with a few... enhancements."
The way she said it—like his condition was an upgrade rather than a curse—made something tight in Harry's chest loosen for the first time since that night by the Shrieking Shack. If Hermione Granger, the smartest witch he knew, could see his transformation that way, then perhaps he could learn to see it that way too.
9¾
9¾
The Hogwarts Express cut through the verdant Scottish countryside, its scarlet engine gleaming in the June sunshine. Inside one of the train's compartments, Harry Potter sat across from Hermione Granger, his attention focused not on the spectacular landscape rolling past the window, but on the leather-bound book in his lap.
The compartment was unusually quiet. Ron had gone in search of the trolley witch ("I'm starving, and she's taking ages to reach our car!"), leaving Harry and Hermione alone amid a comfortable silence broken only by the rhythmic clacking of the train and the occasional rustle as Harry turned a page.
Hermione glanced up from her own book, observing Harry with undisguised curiosity. This studious concentration was uncharacteristic of him, especially on the journey home. Typically, the Hogwarts Express return trip involved Exploding Snap, swapping chocolate frog cards, or animated discussions about Quidditch and summer plans.
Instead, Harry was thoroughly engrossed in Advanced Defensive Magic: A Practical Guide to Combat Spellwork, his brow furrowed in concentration as he traced wandless movements with his finger, occasionally mouthing incantations.
"That's the third defensive spellbook you've started since we left Hogsmeade," Hermione remarked, finally breaking the silence. "I don't think I've ever seen you this interested in academic material before."
Harry looked up, momentarily disoriented as if pulled from deep thought. "Oh. Yeah, I suppose it is."
"Not that I'm complaining about this newfound scholarly enthusiasm," she added with a small smile, "but it's a bit unexpected. Usually, you can't wait to put schoolwork behind you for the summer."
Harry marked his place with a scrap of parchment and closed the book. "This isn't schoolwork," he said quietly. "This is survival."
The seriousness in his tone made Hermione's smile fade. "Harry—"
"I've been thinking about everything that's happened," he continued, leaning forward slightly. "Quirrell, the basilisk, the dementors, Pettigrew... Every year, something tries to kill me—or worse. And every time, I've scraped through mostly on luck."
"That's not true," Hermione protested. "You've shown tremendous skill and courage—"
"Luck, Hermione," Harry insisted. "A lucky phoenix appearance. A lucky patronus. A lucky—" he gestured vaguely at himself, "—partial transformation that gave me the strength to fight off a werewolf. But luck runs out eventually."
The train rattled over a junction, briefly jostling them. Outside, the landscape had begun to transition from wild Scottish highlands to more cultivated English countryside.
"The thing is," Harry continued, his voice softer now, "it's not just about me anymore. Every time we face danger, you and Ron are right there with me. What happens when my luck isn't enough to protect you both?"
Hermione's expression softened. "Harry, we choose to stand with you. You don't force us into danger."
"That doesn't make it any easier to bear." Harry's fingers tightened around the book. "If anything happened to either of you because of me, because I wasn't prepared enough or strong enough..." He shook his head. "I couldn't live with that."
"So that's why you're suddenly devouring defensive magic? For us?"
Harry nodded, slightly embarrassed by the naked emotion in his voice. "I have these new... abilities now. Enhanced strength, faster reflexes. But they're useless if I don't know how to use them properly. If I combine them with better magical knowledge—"
"You're trying to turn your condition into an advantage," Hermione realized, her eyes widening with understanding.
"Exactly." Harry met her gaze directly. "I don't know what's coming next, but I know it won't be easy. And next time, I don't want to rely on luck to keep us safe."
Something shifted in Hermione's expression—a complex emotion Harry couldn't quite identify. Without warning, she rose from her seat and moved to sit beside him, her shoulder pressing lightly against his.
"That's possibly the most mature thing I've ever heard you say, Harry Potter," she said softly.
"Well, don't sound so surprised," he replied with a half-smile, trying to lighten the suddenly heavy atmosphere.
Hermione didn't smile back. Instead, her eyes seemed to search his face with unusual intensity. "You know, when I first met you on this very train three years ago, I never imagined all we'd go through together."
"Having second thoughts about our friendship?" Harry joked weakly.
"Never," she said firmly. Then, with a quickness that caught him entirely off guard, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his cheek.
The kiss lasted only a second, but Harry's enhanced senses captured every aspect of the moment in crystalline detail. The soft pressure of her lips against his skin. The subtle scent of vanilla and parchment that seemed uniquely Hermione. The slight catch in her breathing and the accelerated thrum of her heartbeat, so loud to his ears it momentarily drowned out the train's rumbling. The warmth that spread from the point of contact, setting off a cascade of unfamiliar but not unpleasant sensations throughout his body.
When she pulled back, her cheeks were flushed pink, and Harry felt an answering heat rising to his own face. For a moment, they stared at each other, both seemingly startled by what had just transpired.
"What was that for?" Harry asked, his voice sounding strange even to his own ears.
"For caring so much," Hermione answered simply. "For being you."
Before Harry could formulate a response, the compartment door slid open with a bang.
"You won't believe how much I had to fight my way through to reach the trolley," Ron announced, arms laden with pumpkin pasties, chocolate frogs, and bottles of butterbeer. "It's like—" He stopped abruptly, eyes narrowing as he took in their flushed faces and close proximity. "What's going on? Why are you two looking like that?"
"Like what?" Harry asked too quickly.
"All red and... weird." Ron deposited his snack haul on the empty seat. "Were you two arguing?"
"Actually," Hermione said smoothly, retreating to her original seat, "Harry was just showing me a particularly complex Shield Charm variation."
"Studying? Now?" Ron looked horrified. "We've literally just finished exams!"
The moment broken, they fell into familiar patterns—Ron complaining about academic enthusiasm during holidays, Hermione defending the value of continuous learning, Harry mediating while secretly amused by their bickering.
Harry found himself staring out the window, absently touching the spot where Hermione's lips had brushed his skin. In the glass, his reflection gazed back at him—familiar yet subtly changed. As the train passed through the shadow of a bridge, he caught a momentary flash of amber in his reflected eyes, gone so quickly he might have imagined it.
But Harry was not afraid of this; whatever it was, he would use it to his advantage, and he will never rely on luck ever again.
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