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The relentless beeping of Harry's alarm clock pierced the pre-dawn darkness at exactly 5:00 AM. His hand shot out with inhuman speed to silence it before the sound could wake the Dursleys. A week ago, he might have accidentally crushed the clock with his new strength, but Harry was learning control—in all aspects of his life.
"Day twenty-three," he whispered to himself, swinging his legs over the bed.
The floorboards that had once creaked beneath his feet now remained silent as Harry moved with a predator's grace across his small bedroom like he was hunting someone. He no longer needed to turn on the light; his eyes adjusted instantly to the darkness, and he could see the lines of objects around him. This particular ability had proven incredibly useful, especially when sneaking out to meet Emily after dark.
Harry stood before the cracked mirror on his wardrobe, examining his reflection in the dim light. The scrawny, underfed boy who had returned from Hogwarts just weeks ago had vanished. In his place stood a lean, muscular young man with a warrior's physique—shoulders broader, waist narrower, and arms defined by sinew and strength.
"Not bad for a partial werewolf," he murmured with a half-smile, tracing the silvery scar across his chest—Lupin's parting gift.
Harry pulled on a pair of loose athletic shorts and a t-shirt that once billowed around his frame but now fit snugly across his shoulders. Dursley's old trainers would have to do for running—though they were starting to feel uncomfortably tight.
Before beginning his regimen, Harry closed his eyes and took three measured breaths, focusing on what Professor Lupin had called "sensory calibration" in his last letter. The world around him was initially overwhelming—the sound of Vernon's thunderous snoring two rooms away, the rustle of leaves outside his window, the neighbor's cat stalking a mouse in the garden, and the pungent smell of Petunia's rose fertilizer from yesterday's gardening.
"Dial it down," Harry whispered to himself, envisioning a set of controls in his mind. He mentally adjusted the dials, reducing his hearing sensitivity until Vernon's snores faded to a distant rumble. Next came smell—turning that dial until the neighborhood odors receded to a manageable background. With each passing day, this process became easier, more intuitive.
Opening his eyes, Harry smiled. The world felt almost... normal, almost like before.
"Right then. Let's begin."
Harry dropped to the floor, positioning himself for push-ups.
"One hundred," he counted finally, pushing up to his feet. Sweat had begun to form on his brow, but his breathing remained steady.
Sit-ups followed, then squats and lunges. Harry moved through the exercises with methodical precision, having developed his routine from a fitness book he'd found discarded in Dudley's room. What might have once been torture now felt invigorating—his body responding with enthusiasm to each challenge.
"Two hundred," he counted as he completed his final sit-up. Rising to his feet, Harry stretched his arms overhead, feeling the pleasant pull of muscles.
"Bloody hell," came a whispered voice from the doorway.
Harry spun around, dropping automatically into a defensive stance. Dudley stood gaping in the doorway, a half-eaten sandwich clutched in one pudgy hand.
"How long have you been standing there?" Harry asked, straightening up.
"Long enough," Dudley replied, eyes wide as they traveled over Harry's transformed physique. "What happened to you? You look like... like..."
"Like what?" Harry prompted, curious despite himself.
Dudley swallowed hard. "Like someone I wouldn't want to fight anymore," he admitted with surprising honesty.
Harry laughed softly. "That's probably wise."
An awkward silence stretched between them—cousins who had never been friends, now finding themselves in uncharted territory.
"Does it hurt?" Dudley finally asked, gesturing vaguely at Harry.
"Does what hurt?"
"Being... whatever you are now. Mum and Dad won't talk about it?"
Harry considered the question seriously. "Sometimes. Not as much as it did at first. I'm getting better at controlling it."
Dudley nodded as if he understood, though he clearly didn't. "That's why you're doing all this? The exercises and running and stuff?"
"Partly," Harry admitted. "Physical training helps me maintain control. Plus," he added with a small grin, "not hating how I look is a bonus."
To Harry's surprise, Dudley chuckled. "Yeah, I bet. The girls at school would go mental if they saw you now." He shifted uncomfortably. "Like that Polkiss girl. Emily. Piers says she's been asking about you."
Harry felt heat rise to his face that had nothing to do with exercise. "Has she?"
"Yeah. Weird, that." Dudley studied him a moment longer. "Anyway, I'm going back to bed. Some of us don't get up at the crack of dawn to turn into superheroes." He turned to leave, then paused. "Don't tell Mum I was up eating again."
"Your secret's safe," Harry promised, bemused by this strange new dynamic between them.
After Dudley lumbered back to his room, Harry slipped his feet into his trainers and quietly made his way downstairs and out the front door. The neighborhood was silent and still, street lamps casting pools of amber light on the empty road. Dawn was just beginning to lighten the eastern sky as Harry set off at a comfortable pace.
His morning run had extended each day—from around the block to now covering nearly five miles. Harry's feet pounded the pavement in a steady rhythm as he circled through Little Whinging, passing manicured lawns and identical houses. His thoughts drifted as he ran, contemplating how dramatically his life had changed.
The scratch from Lupin—what had initially seemed a curse—had reshaped him into something stronger. His muscles worked tirelessly, his lungs expanding easily as he increased his pace. The cool morning air felt glorious against his skin. For perhaps the first time in his life, Harry felt physically powerful.
When he returned to number four Privet Drive, the sun had fully risen. Sweat glistened on his skin, but he wasn't winded or exhausted—just pleasantly invigorated. Harry made his way back to his room, careful not to wake the still-sleeping Dursleys.
After a quick shower, Harry sat at his desk and opened his leather-bound journal—a gift from Hermione before the end of term. With meticulous care, he documented the morning's activities:
July 17 - Day 23 post-infection
Morning routine completed. Physical stamina continues to increase beyond normal human limits. Completed 200 push-ups, 200 sit-ups, 150 squats, and ran approximately 5 miles without significant fatigue.
Sensory control improving significantly. Successfully "dialed down" hearing and smell to near-normal levels this morning. Managed to maintain control throughout physical exertion. Still occasionally overwhelmed by sudden loud noises or strong scents, but recovery time is much faster.
Night vision remains enhanced regardless of attempts to normalize it. This appears to be a permanent change rather than a controllable ability.
Physical transformation continues to stabilize. Muscle growth has slowed but strength still increasing. Appetite remains higher than pre-infection but no longer ravenous.
Full moon is 22 days away. Will continue monitoring for early symptoms.
Harry closed the journal, satisfied with his progress. He was no longer at the mercy of his condition—he was mastering it.
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The hot water cascaded over Harry's shoulders, washing away the sweat from his morning workout. He closed his eyes, letting his mind wander as steam filled the small bathroom. Inevitably, his thoughts drifted to Emily—as they often did during these quiet moments alone.
Last night had been particularly intense. The memory was still fresh, causing his body to respond immediately.
''' "Harry," Emily had whispered, her back pressed against her bedroom wall, pupils dilated as she looked up at him. "My parents won't be home for hours."
"Tell me what you want," Harry had demanded, his voice deeper than usual as he pressed against her, one hand braced against the wall, the other lifting her chin so she had to meet his gaze.
"You know what I want," she'd teased, but Harry wasn't in a playful mood.
"Say it," he'd insisted, his green eyes holding hers captive.
Emily had bit her lip, her resistance crumbling. "I want you to take control... like last time."
That was all the invitation Harry needed. He'd claimed her mouth in a bruising kiss, his hands easily lifting her and carrying her to the bed. What followed was a blur of sensation—clothes torn in his eagerness, Emily's breathless encouragement as he pinned her wrists above her head, the way she'd gasped when he'd entered her with a single powerful thrust.
"Harder," she'd begged.
The bed frame had creaked in protest as he'd moved with strength and stamina, Emily's nails digging crescents into his shoulders. When she'd tried to take control, flipping them over, Harry had growled again—a sound that was half-laugh, half-warning—before effortlessly reversing their positions.
"Not a chance," he'd murmured against her throat, feeling her pulse hammering beneath his lips. "Tonight you're mine."
Her response had been incoherent, dissolving into moans as Harry drove them both toward release. His enhanced senses allowed him to detect every subtle reaction, every catch in her breath, every quickening of her pulse—making him an attentive lover despite his dominance.
When she finally shattered beneath him, crying out his name, Harry had allowed himself to follow. '''
The memory faded as Harry turned off the shower, water droplets clinging to his new musculature. He wrapped a towel around his waist, wiping condensation from the mirror to examine his reflection.
"What exactly are you doing, Potter?" he asked himself quietly.
The arrangement with Emily had begun almost accidentally—mutual attraction intensified by his new condition—but had quickly evolved into something they both needed. For Emily, it was an exciting summer fling with the mysterious boy rumored to attend St. Brutus's Center for Incurably Criminal Boys. For Harry, it was both release and refuge—a way to channel his overwhelming new urges into something pleasurable rather than destructive.
Harry ran a hand through his damp hair, considering their situation with surprising clarity. There was no illusion of romance between them—just mutual satisfaction. Emily didn't ask about his past or future; she didn't need to know about Hogwarts or Voldemort or the Boy Who Lived. With her, he could simply be a young man embracing his desires.
"It's just temporary," he reminded himself, though the words carried no real regret. They both understood that summer would eventually end, taking their arrangement with it.
A different face flickered through his mind—warm brown eyes, wild hair, and a smile that made his chest ache in a way Emily's never did. Harry winced slightly, imagining Hermione's reaction if she ever discovered how he'd been spending his summer evenings.
Would she be disappointed? Disgusted? Or—the thought made his pulse quicken—jealous?
"She'd probably lecture me about using protection spells," Harry muttered to himself with a reluctant smile, though he knew that wasn't entirely fair. Hermione wasn't nearly as prudish as Ron sometimes suggested. Still, there was something about her recent letters that made him wonder if perhaps her feelings had evolved beyond friendship.
Harry pulled on clean clothes. Whatever Hermione might think, he couldn't deny that his nocturnal activities with Emily served a practical purpose beyond pleasure. After each encounter, the restlessness that plagued him—the constant itch beneath his skin, the unpredictable surges of aggression—subsided, leaving him centered and focused.
Professor Lupin had warned him that controlling his new instincts would be his greatest challenge. What the professor hadn't mentioned—perhaps out of propriety—was how sexual release could temporarily quiet those same instincts.
"Not exactly something I can put in my condition journal," Harry remarked dryly to his reflection. "'Dear Professor Lupin, found shagging works better than meditation. Regards, Harry.'"
With a final glance at the mirror, Harry headed back to his room, resolving to focus on his studies rather than Emily Polkiss—at least until nightfall.
Three Days Later
Harry settled at his desk, carefully arranging the stack of letters he'd received over the past weeks. The parchment from his friends had become a lifeline—his connection to the wizarding world while trapped in Privet Drive. He organized them chronologically: Ron's hasty scrawls on the left, Sirius's coded messages in the center, and Hermione's meticulously penned letters forming the tallest pile on the right.
It was Hermione's most recent correspondence that had been occupying his thoughts. Harry unfolded her latest letter, his enhanced vision easily reading her neat handwriting even in the dim morning light.
Harry,
I hope this letter finds you well. I've been researching your condition extensively (you know me, never met a library book I didn't want to devour). There's frustratingly little information on partial lycanthropy, but I'm not giving up.
I had the strangest dream about you last night. You were running through the Forbidden Forest, and I was trying to keep up. Every time I got close, you'd disappear again into the trees. When I finally caught up to you by the lake, you turned around and your eyes were that brilliant green but with flecks of gold. You smiled at me and said, "What took you so long?" Then I woke up. Isn't that odd? I suppose my subconscious is processing all these changes you're going through.
Mum and Dad are driving me mad with their dental convention stories. I'd much rather be spending the summer with you—I mean, with you and Ron, of course. I keep wondering what you look like now, with all the changes you've described. Your letters make it sound like quite the transformation.
Write back soon.
Love always,
Hermione
Harry's finger traced the phrase "Love always" at the bottom of the parchment. Had she always signed her letters that way? He couldn't remember. And what about that dream she'd described? There was something intimate about her sharing it with him, something that made his pulse quicken in a way that had nothing to do with his condition.
"Am I reading too much into this?" Harry muttered to himself, setting the letter aside and picking up an earlier one.
I keep thinking about how different you might look when I see you next. Ron hardly mentioned your transformation in his last letter, but I find myself curious.
Harry's enhanced hearing picked up the sound of wings before Hedwig appeared at his window. She swooped gracefully into the room, dropping three letters and a box onto his desk before settling on her perch with an expectant look.
"Good timing," Harry told her, crossing the room to offer her an owl treat. "I was just drowning in teenage confusion. Care to offer any wisdom?"
Hedwig blinked at him solemnly before turning her attention to the treat.
"Didn't think so," Harry sighed, returning to his desk to examine the new arrivals.
The first envelope bore Ron's untidy handwriting. Harry opened it, smiling at his friend's familiar tone:
Harry,
Dad's got tickets to the Quidditch match between the Cannons and Puddlemere this weekend! Not great seats, but who cares? Oliver Wood got signed to Puddlemere's reserve team, did you hear?
Mum's been cleaning like mad because Hermione's coming to stay next week. She's put me to work de-gnoming the garden every bloody day. Fred and George are locked in their room working on something that keeps making small explosions. Mum's pretending not to notice, but I caught her putting extra fire-protection charms on their door.
Any more weird wolf stuff happening? You haven't mentioned it much lately. Hope the Muggles are treating you decent. Let me know if they're not, and Fred and George might send them something special from their "testing" collection.
-Ron
P.S. Dad's got something planned to get you here, too. Won't tell me what yet.
Harry chuckled at Ron's casual mention of his "wolf stuff," as though Harry had developed a mild case of acne rather than a life-altering condition. Still, he appreciated his friend's matter-of-fact approach. With Ron, things were simple, straightforward.
The second letter was from Hermione, and Harry found himself opening it with unusually eager fingers:
Dear Harry,
Wonderful news! I'll be arriving at the Burrow next Tuesday. Mrs. Weasley wrote to my parents personally to invite me. I only wish you could join us sooner.
I've enclosed a photograph of me that my father took yesterday. Mum insists I've "grown up" this summer, whatever that means. I suppose we're all changing, aren't we?
Counting the days until I see you again,
Love always,
Hermione
Harry turned the envelope upside down, and a photograph slipped out. Unlike wizarding photos, this one remained still—a Muggle snapshot showing Hermione sitting on a garden bench, wearing a sundress, her usually bushy hair tamed into loose waves falling past her shoulders. She was smiling directly at the camera, looking indeed more grown-up than when he'd last seen her.
Harry's heart performed an odd little stutter. The Hermione in this photo wasn't just his clever best friend; she was undeniably beautiful. He found himself staring at her image longer than he probably should have, noticing details he'd somehow missed during four years of friendship.
"Bloody hell," he whispered, setting the photo down when he realized his pupils had dilated in response to looking at it—a wolfish reaction he was still learning to control.
Was Hermione actually flirting with him in these letters, or was his condition making him interpret innocent friendship as something more? Harry ran a hand through his hair in frustration.
Emily's face flashed through his mind, bringing a wave of complicated emotions. What he had with Emily was straightforward—physical, temporary, and satisfying. His feelings for Hermione were a tangled mess of friendship, admiration, longing, and something deeper he wasn't ready to name.
"They're not even comparable," Harry told himself firmly, though he wasn't entirely convinced.
He picked up the third letter—from Sirius—but found himself returning to the photo of Hermione once more before opening it. For the first time, Harry wondered if his summer arrangement with Emily was really as uncomplicated as he'd believed.
Finally turning his attention to Sirius's letter, Harry set aside Hermione's photo with reluctance. The package accompanying his godfather's letter was wrapped in plain brown paper, surprisingly heavy for its size. Harry broke the seal on the letter first, recognizing Sirius's elegant but hastily written script:
Harry,
I hope this finds you well. Your last letter mentioned your frustration at being unable to practice magic during the summer. While I would never encourage my godson to break Ministry regulations (Moony is reading over my shoulder and insisting I add this disclaimer), I thought you might benefit from these books from the Black family library.
Wandless magic is an often overlooked branch of magical study at Hogwarts. The Ministry's Trace detects magic performed in the vicinity of underage wizards, but it specifically monitors wand signatures. Wandless magic, particularly when performed subtly, rarely triggers their detection systems.
These texts were considered essential education for Black family heirs in generations past. The first volume contains basic theory and introductory exercises. The second focuses on channeling emotional energy without a wand. The third (approach with caution) explores more advanced applications.
Your condition may actually prove advantageous in this area. Wandless magic requires intense focus and a strong connection to one's innate magical core—both qualities that could be enhanced by your current situation.
Start small. Master Lumos before attempting anything more complex. And for Merlin's sake, don't try anything that might alert the neighbors or the Ministry.
I remain in a secure location with our mutual furry friend, who sends his regards and promises to write soon with more specific guidance on your monthly challenges.
Stay safe, and remember—you are your father's son in all the best ways.
—Padfoot
P.S. Burn this letter after reading. Some habits from life as a fugitive are hard to break.
Harry set the letter aside with a grin, imagining Sirius and Lupin huddled together in some hidden safehouse, arguing over what advice to give him. His godfather's rebellious streak clearly remained intact despite his circumstances.
The package unwrapped to reveal three leather-bound books of varying sizes, each looking centuries old. The smallest, titled Wandless Beginnings: Theory and Practice, had a dark blue cover with silver runes embossed along its spine. The second, bound in rich brown leather, was called The Emotional Conduit: Channeling Magic Without Wands. The third and largest book, its black cover unmarked except for a single silver symbol, bore no title that Harry could discern.
"Wandless magic," Harry whispered, running his fingers along the first book's cover. The possibilities were suddenly endless.
He opened the first volume carefully, half-expecting it to be written in some ancient language, but the text was perfectly legible despite its archaic phrasing:
Wandless magic represents the purest expression of a wizard's power. Wands, while useful for focusing and amplifying magical energy, ultimately serve as crutches—tools that distance the caster from their innate magical essence. The wandless practitioner must forge a direct connection to their magical core, bypassing artificial conduits in favor of the body's natural channels.
Harry flipped through the pages eagerly, pausing at an illustration showing energy pathways through a wizard's body. According to the text, magical energy naturally pooled in the center of the chest before flowing outward through the arms to the fingertips—the most common exit points for wandless spells.
"This is brilliant," Harry murmured, wondering how Sirius had managed to send such valuable books while on the run. The Black family library must be extraordinary if these kinds of texts were just sitting on its shelves. No wonder the Ministry was so eager to search Grimmauld Place after Sirius's escape.
Tomorrow
Harry spent twenty minutes rearranging his bedroom, pushing his bed against one wall and clearing the center of the floor. According to the first chapter of Wandless Beginnings, a clear space free from distractions was essential for initial practice. He hung a blanket over his window, both to block distracting outdoor movements and to prevent neighbors from witnessing anything unusual.
"Right then," Harry muttered, standing in the center of his room. "Lumos."
Nothing happened.
Harry frowned, looking down at his empty palm. The book had suggested starting with the simplest spells, and Lumos seemed an obvious choice. He tried again, concentrating harder.
"Lumos!"
Still nothing. Not even a flicker.
After fifteen more unsuccessful attempts, Harry's initial excitement began to fade into frustration. He returned to the book, scanning for anything he might have missed:
The novice practitioner often makes the critical error of attempting to replicate wand movements with an empty hand. Wandless magic requires not imitation of wand technique but a fundamentally different approach to channeling magical energy.
Harry ran his hand through his hair, rereading the passage carefully. The next paragraph offered more specific guidance:
Begin by locating your magical core. Close your eyes and feel for the center of your magical being—typically experienced as warmth or energy in the chest or solar plexus. Once located, visualize this energy flowing outward through your chosen pathway (most commonly the dominant arm) to your fingertips. The incantation serves only as a focus for your intention; the true power lies in directing your inner magic through will alone.
"Worth a try," Harry muttered, closing his eyes.
He stood still, focusing inward as the book suggested. At first, he felt nothing but the steady rhythm of his own heartbeat. Then, as he continued to concentrate, he became aware of a different sensation—a warm, humming energy behind his sternum, pulsing in time with his heart but somehow separate.
"That's it," he whispered, maintaining his focus on the sensation.
Now came the difficult part—directing that energy outward. Harry visualized the warmth flowing down his right arm like water through a channel, gathering at his fingertips. The sensation was strange but not unpleasant—a tingling that intensified as he concentrated.
"Lumos," he whispered, this time focusing on the intention rather than the word itself.
For a split second, he thought he saw the faintest glimmer at his fingertips before it vanished.
"I almost had it!"
Harry tried again, closing his eyes to better focus on the internal sensation. This time, he noticed something different—his enhanced senses seemed to be helping him track the flow of magic through his body. He could almost feel it moving beneath his skin, responding to his direction in a way he'd never experienced with a wand.
On his next attempt, Harry drew not only on his magic but on the primal energy that had become part of him since Lupin's scratch. His partial lycanthropy had heightened his senses and reflexes; perhaps it could enhance his magical focus as well.
"Lumos," he commanded, channeling both energies simultaneously.
The tip of his index finger illuminated with a small but steady ball of light, casting shadows across his bedroom walls.
"I did it!" Harry exclaimed, his concentration nearly faltering in his excitement. The light flickered but remained, a tangible manifestation of wandless magic.
The glow was nothing compared to what his wand could produce—barely enough to read by—but it was undeniably magic, performed without a wand and undetectable by the Ministry. Harry maintained the spell for nearly a minute before the drain on his energy became too much. When he finally released it, he staggered backward, suddenly exhausted.
"Merlin's beard," he gasped, collapsing onto his bed. "That was harder than it looked."
The book had warned that wandless magic required significantly more magical energy than wand-channeled spells. What would normally be an effortless first-year charm had left Harry feeling as though he'd run a marathon. Despite his exhaustion, however, he couldn't stop grinning. He'd done wandless magic—something even many adult wizards never mastered.
"Just wait until Hermione sees this," he murmured before catching himself. The image of her impressed face appeared in his mind, triggering a warm feeling entirely unrelated to magical exertion.
Harry glanced at her photograph still lying on his desk, then at Sirius's books. With these new skills and his enhanced abilities, he felt ready to face what the next year might have in store for him—whether they involved Voldemort, his lycanthropic condition, or his increasingly complicated feelings for his best friend.
After resting for several minutes, Harry sat up with renewed determination. Exhausting or not, he would master this. He had the rest of the summer to practice, and if there was one thing his condition had given him, it was enhanced endurance.
"One more try," he told himself, raising his hand once more. "Lumos."
This time, the light came more quickly, a little brighter than before.
The house at Number Four, Privet Drive had finally fallen silent. Vernon's snores thundered from the master bedroom, while Dudley's television hummed at a volume just low enough to avoid parental detection. Harry glanced at the glowing digits of his alarm clock: 12:17 AM. Perfect.
He slid from his bed, already dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt, and retrieved Sirius's first book from its hiding place beneath the loose floorboard. After his afternoon breakthrough with Lumos, Harry had spent hours studying the theory behind wandless magic, particularly a chapter titled "Elemental Manifestations."
"Spells that create rather than transform," Harry whispered to himself, recalling the text, "draw more directly on magical energy and thus require fewer transformative matrices, making them ideal for wandless beginners."
He stood in the center of his room, feet planted shoulder-width apart as the book recommended. His earlier exhaustion had faded after a large dinner and evening nap. Now, with the household asleep and his energy restored, Harry was ready to push further.
First, he would master the floating Lumos. The book explained that detaching the light from one's fingertips required visualizing the magic as extending beyond the physical body—projecting rather than simply channeling.
Harry closed his eyes, locating his magical core. The warm sensation in his chest had become familiar after today's exercises, and he found he could access it more quickly each time. He directed the energy down his arm, but this time, instead of containing it at his fingertips, he visualized it extending outward.
"Lumos," he whispered.
A small orb of light appeared hovering inches above his palm. Unlike the pinpoint glow from earlier, this was a proper sphere of soft white light, illuminating his room with a gentle radiance.
"Brilliant," Harry breathed, experimenting with moving his hand beneath the orb. The light remained stationary in the air when he pulled his hand away, responding to his will rather than his physical touch.
As he sustained the spell, Harry noticed something fascinating—his enhanced senses seemed to be detecting the magic itself. He could almost see the energy flowing from his core to the hovering light, a faint golden thread visible only to his altered perception.
"Is this how Dumbledore sees magic?" Harry wondered aloud, recalling occasions when the headmaster had seemed to perceive magical phenomena invisible to others.
He maintained the floating Lumos for nearly five minutes before releasing it, feeling only moderately taxed rather than completely drained. His endurance was improving rapidly.
After a short rest, Harry turned to the next challenge—Aguamenti. Creating water wandlessly would be more difficult, the book warned, as it involved manifesting actual physical matter rather than just energy.
He flipped to a diagram showing the correct visualization technique—picturing water molecules gathering from the surrounding air, condensing into liquid form. The incantation was merely a trigger; the real work happened in the precise magical visualization.
Harry extended his hand, palm upward, and focused intently. He gathered his magical energy, directing it through his arm while simultaneously visualizing microscopic water particles collecting above his palm.
"Aguamenti," he whispered.
A faint mist appeared, hovering above his hand for a moment before dissipating.
"Not quite," Harry muttered, consulting the book again. The text suggested that elemental conjuring spells benefited from connecting to the caster's emotional association with the element.
Harry closed his eyes, thinking about water—the coolness of the Black Lake against his skin, the refreshing sensation of drinking after Quidditch practice, the sound of rainfall against the Gryffindor dormitory windows.
He tried again, this time allowing those sensory memories to flow through him alongside his magical energy.
"Aguamenti."
A small but definite stream of water materialized above his palm, splashing onto his hand and floor. Harry hastily directed it into his empty water glass, grinning as it filled halfway before the spell ended.
"Professor Lupin was right," Harry said to his reflection in the window glass. "Being part-wolf has its advantages."
His enhanced senses and focus were accelerating his progress with wandless magic far beyond what the book suggested was normal. What might have taken months of practice was coming to him in hours. The realization was both exhilarating and slightly unsettling.
Harry glanced at the third book from Sirius's package—the unmarked black volume—before turning resolutely back to the basics. One step at a time. Master the foundations before exploring more dangerous territory.
Still, as he continued practicing into the early morning hours, alternating between light and water spells, Harry couldn't help but feel a surge of confidence.
Dawn's first light was beginning to filter through his curtains when Harry finally collapsed onto his bed, magically and physically exhausted but deeply satisfied. He reached for his journal, determined to document his progress before sleep claimed him.
After he wrote everything, Harry closed the journal, fingers tapping thoughtfully against its leather cover. If he could master even basic wandless magic before returning to Hogwarts, it would give him an advantage few wizards possessed—perhaps even an edge over Voldemort himself.
A soft tapping at the window interrupted his thoughts. Harry looked up to see a small, excitable owl bouncing against the glass, a letter tied to its leg.
"Pig," Harry groaned, recognizing Ron's miniature owl. He dragged himself from the bed to let the tiny creature in.
Pigwidgeon zoomed around the room in celebratory circles before Harry managed to catch him and retrieve the letter. The hasty scrawl was unmistakably Ron's:
Harry,
Dad's got it all arranged! We're coming to get you this Saturday at noon.
Dad says to tell your aunt and uncle we'll arrive by car like muggles. He's borrowing one from the Ministry. Don't tell him I told you, but Fred and George have been working on something special for Dudley. Consider it payback for all those years of bullying.
See you Saturday!
-Ron
Harry read the letter twice, conflicting emotions swirling within him. The Burrow was his favorite place in the world besides Hogwarts—warm, chaotic, and filled with people who genuinely cared for him. The thought of escaping Privet Drive weeks earlier than expected would normally have filled him with unalloyed joy.
Yet now, he found himself thinking of Emily—their nighttime meetings, the release she provided from his new urges. Once he left for the Burrow, that chapter would end.
"It's for the best," Harry told himself firmly, though a part of him doubted it. With Emily, he didn't have to explain or justify his condition; she accepted the physical changes without knowing their cause, finding them attractive rather than frightening.
With his friends—especially Hermione—he would need to be more careful, more controlled. The image of Hermione's photograph flashed in his mind, bringing with it a warmth different from what he felt with Emily. More complex. More meaningful.
"Saturday," Harry murmured. "Three more days."
Three days to master as much wandless magic as possible. Three days to enjoy Emily's company one last time. Three days to prepare himself for returning to the wizarding world as something not quite human.
Harry extended both hands. From his left palm, a sphere of light blossomed, while water streamed from his right—both spells maintained simultaneously with minimal strain.
As he released the spells and prepared for a few hours of sleep, Harry found himself thinking of Hermione's reaction when he eventually showed her his new abilities. He imagined her brown eyes widening in surprise and admiration, and asking hundreds of questions.
For some reason, that imagined future moment felt more significant than all his magical progress combined. Harry drifted to sleep with Hermione's smile in his thoughts, his journal clutched against his chest, and three books of wandless magic hidden safely beneath his floorboards.
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