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Harry's consciousness drifted back slowly, like surfacing from the depths of a particularly pleasant dream. Except this wasn't a dream—the warm weight pressed against both sides of his body was very real. Hermione's bushy hair tickled his left shoulder while Ginny's red strands spilled across his right arm. Both girls were still fast asleep, their breathing soft and even in the pre-dawn quiet.
Bloody hell, Harry thought, careful not to move and wake them. This actually happened.
The events of the previous night came rushing back in vivid detail. The nervous conversation in the clearing, the awkward dinner where he'd nearly choked on his pumpkin juice watching Ginny lick gravy from her lip, and then... everything that followed. His enhanced senses allowed him to detect the subtle changes in their scents—the lingering traces of their shared intimacy mixed with the vanilla of Hermione's shampoo and the cinnamon-sunshine smell that was uniquely Ginny.
Harry's internal monologue was interrupted when Hermione stirred beside him, her brown eyes fluttering open. For a moment, she looked confused, then awareness dawned and a soft blush colored her cheeks.
"Good morning," she whispered, so quietly that even Harry's enhanced hearing barely caught it.
"Morning," he replied, his voice rough with sleep. "Sleep well?"
"Better than I have in weeks," Hermione admitted, then bit her lip. "Are you... do you regret—"
"No," Harry said firmly, cutting off her doubts before they could take root. "Not even a little bit."
Ginny chose that moment to wake up, stretching like a cat before realizing where she was. Her eyes widened slightly as the memories returned, then a slow, satisfied smile spread across her face.
"Well," she said with characteristic boldness, though she kept her voice low, "that wasn't terrible at all."
Harry snorted softly. "Your standards are remarkably low, Gin."
"I prefer to think of it as managing expectations," she replied with a grin. "Though I must say, you both exceeded them rather spectacularly."
Hermione buried her face against Harry's shoulder, clearly torn between mortification and amusement. "We're discussing this like a Transfiguration practical," she mumbled.
"Would you prefer we discuss it like a Potions essay?" Ginny teased. "I could rate your technique on a scale of Acceptable to Outstanding."
"Ginny!" Hermione protested, though Harry could feel her trying not to laugh.
"What? I'm just saying Harry definitely earned an Outstanding," Ginny continued innocently. "Though I might need more data points to be completely certain."
"Speaking of data points," Hermione said, lifting her head to look at them both seriously, "we need to talk about the practical aspects of this... arrangement."
"Trust you to want to organize even this," Harry said fondly, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.
"Someone has to think about the logistics," Hermione replied primly. "For instance, how do we explain our absences? Ron's already suspicious about how much time we spend together, and now we'll need even more privacy."
Ginny propped herself up on one elbow, her expression growing more thoughtful. "Training sessions," she suggested. "Harry's lycanthropy condition requires specialized exercises, right? Magical and physical conditioning that's too dangerous or personal for others to observe."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "You want to use my partial lycanthropy as an excuse to sneak off for... this?"
"It's not an excuse if it's partially true," Ginny pointed out. "You do need specialized training. I've been watching you, Harry—your abilities are growing faster than you're learning to control them."
"She's right," Hermione agreed, her academic instincts kicking in. "I've been researching lycanthropic magical development, and everything I've read suggests that partial transformations like yours can lead to exponential growth in both magical power and physical capabilities."
Harry frowned. "Exponential how?"
"Well, for starters, your wandless magic is advancing remarkably quickly," Hermione explained, shifting to face him more fully. "Most wizards who attempt wandless casting spend years mastering even simple spells. You've progressed from nothing to basic charms in a matter of weeks."
"And your physical changes are accelerating too," Ginny added. "You're stronger, faster, and your senses are still developing. At some point, you're going to need to learn how to use these abilities properly."
Harry considered this, absently running his fingers through Hermione's hair. The motion seemed to calm both him and her—another side effect of his condition that he was still discovering.
"Plus," Ginny added with a mischievous glint in her eye, "it gives us a legitimate reason to spend time alone together. 'Harry's training regimen' sounds much more innocent than 'Harry's learning to share girlfriends.'"
"We're not—" Harry started, then stopped. Were they girlfriends? Both of them? "What exactly are we calling this? Us, I mean."
A moment of uncertainty passed between the three of them. Finally, Hermione spoke up.
"We're... figuring it out," she said carefully. "This is new territory for all of us. Maybe we don't need to label it right away."
"As long as we're all on the same page about exclusivity," Ginny said, her tone casual but her eyes serious. "I don't fancy sharing you with anyone else without knowing it first, Potter."
"Same here," Hermione agreed quickly.
"Good," he said, his voice coming out rougher than intended. "Because I don't think I could handle watching either of you with someone else."
The admission surprised him with its intensity. When had he become so territorial? Another lycanthropic trait, perhaps.
"Settle down, werewolf," Ginny teased, though she looked pleased by his reaction. "Your eyes are starting to glow."
Harry blinked, forcing himself to relax. "Sorry. Still getting used to the enhanced emotions."
"Don't apologize," Hermione said softly. "I like seeing that side of you. The protective, possessive side. It's... attractive."
Before he could respond, the sound of movement from elsewhere in the house reached his enhanced hearing. Mrs. Weasley was awake and moving around the kitchen, starting her morning routine.
"We should probably separate," he said reluctantly. "Mrs. Weasley's up."
"Already?" Ginny glanced toward the window, where the first hints of dawn were beginning to show. "It's barely past five."
"She likes to get an early start on baking," Hermione explained, already sitting up and looking around for her discarded clothes. "Especially with the World Cup approaching."
They moved carefully and quietly, gathering their scattered nightclothes. Harry tried not to stare as both girls dressed, but his enhanced vision made it difficult to look away from the graceful movements of their bodies in the dim light.
"Eyes front, Potter," Ginny whispered with amusement, noticing his attention.
"Can't help it," Harry admitted with a sheepish grin. "Enhanced vision, remember?"
"That's going to be a problem," Hermione said thoughtfully as she pulled her pajama top back on. "If your senses keep developing, maintaining discretion will become increasingly difficult."
"Another reason for specialized training," Ginny pointed out, straightening her nightgown. "Learning to control and filter your enhanced perceptions."
Harry nodded, though part of him didn't want to filter anything. The ability to see them both so clearly, to catch every subtle expression and movement, felt like a gift rather than a problem.
Hermione moved toward the door first, pausing to listen for sounds in the hallway. When she was satisfied it was clear, she turned back to them.
"Same time tonight?" she asked, her cheeks pink but her voice steady.
"Definitely," Ginny replied without hesitation.
"Wouldn't miss it," Harry agreed.
Hermione smiled—that brilliant, radiant smile that always made Harry's heart skip a beat—then slipped quietly out of the room. Ginny lingered a moment longer, moving close enough to press a quick, soft kiss to Harry's lips.
"Sweet dreams, Potter," she whispered against his mouth. "Try not to think about us too much today."
Fat chance of that, Harry thought as she followed Hermione out of the room, leaving him alone with the lingering scents of vanilla and cinnamon and the memory of the most extraordinary night of his life.
Training sessions, he thought with a small smile. Best excuse ever.
Tomorrow
He'd managed to slip away from the Burrow after breakfast, claiming he needed to practice his "lycanthropic meditation exercises"—a cover story that was becoming increasingly useful, if not entirely truthful.
Right then, Harry thought, settling cross-legged in the center of the clearing. Time to see what I can actually do.
He started with the basics, extending his palm and focusing on the familiar warmth that preceded his wandless magic. "Lumos."
Light bloomed instantly, brighter and more stable than it had been even a week ago. Harry manipulated it absently, making the orb dance between his fingers while he considered his next move. The progress with Lumos was encouraging, but it was hardly going to help him in a real crisis.
"Accio," he said, focusing on a fallen apple about three feet away.
The fruit shot toward him, smacking into his palm with enough force to sting slightly. Harry frowned. His range with the summoning charm was pathetically limited—anything farther than seven feet away, and the spell simply fizzled out. Even worse, he could only manage objects roughly the size of his hand. Hardly impressive for someone supposedly developing "exponential magical growth."
Let's test those limits, he decided, standing up and walking to the edge of the clearing. He placed the apple against the base of a large oak tree, then retreated to his original position.
"Accio apple," he said with more force, extending his arm toward the distant fruit.
Nothing happened.
"Accio apple!" he tried again, putting more emotional intensity behind the words.
The apple trembled slightly, rolled perhaps an inch, then stopped. Harry cursed under his breath. Eight feet, and already his magic was failing him.
Pathetic, he thought with growing frustration. Hermione's right about needing advanced training. At this rate, I'll be lucky to summon my own shoes.
Deciding to try something completely new, Harry pulled out a piece of parchment from his pocket—notes Hermione had given him that morning about the theoretical applications of wandless magic. He squinted at her precise handwriting in the dim forest light.
Softening Charm - Spongify. First-year spell, should be manageable. Effect: temporarily alters molecular structure of solid objects to make them compressible and bouncy. Reversal: finite incantatem or simply wait for the effect to fade naturally.
Harry looked around the clearing for a suitable test subject and settled on a small rock about the size of a Snitch. He picked it up, feeling its solid weight in his palm, then set it down in front of him.
"Spongify," he said, focusing on the mental image of the rock becoming soft and squishy.
Nothing happened.
"Spongify," he tried again, this time gesturing toward the rock with his hand.
Still nothing. The rock remained stubbornly rock-like.
Harry took a deep breath, remembering what Hermione had told him about emotional resonance. Maybe he needed to feel something stronger than mild concentration.
Come on, he thought, staring at the rock with growing determination. I've fought a basilisk. I've produced a corporeal Patronus. I can bloody well soften a rock.
"Spongify!" he said with more force, channeling his frustration into the spell.
The rock shimmered slightly, its surface appearing to ripple for just a moment before returning to normal. Progress, but barely.
This was going to take a while.
Two hours later, Harry was beginning to understand why most wizards gave up on wandless magic. His head was pounding from concentration, his throat was dry from repeated incantations, and he'd managed to achieve exactly nothing beyond a few encouraging shimmer effects.
The small pile of test rocks in front of him remained mockingly solid.
Maybe I'm approaching this wrong, Harry thought, wiping sweat from his forehead. Hermione said emotional state matters. What if I need to be more than just determined?
He thought about the night he'd first successfully performed wandless magic.
Right. Let's try anger.
Harry picked up one of the rocks, feeling its hardness against his palm. He thought about the Dursleys, about years of being called a freak, about sleeping in a cupboard while Dudley got two bedrooms. He thought about Snape's constant sneering, about the way the wizarding world had alternately worshipped and vilified him since he was eleven years old.
The familiar heat began building in his chest, that wild energy that felt both dangerous and exhilarating.
"Spongify," he growled, his voice lower and rougher than usual.
The rock in his hand suddenly gave way, compressing like a stress ball beneath his fingers. Harry nearly dropped it in surprise, then grinned fiercely as he squeezed the now-squishy stone.
"Bloody brilliant," he muttered, tossing the transformed rock into the air and catching it as it bounced. "Anger it is, then."
The success gave him confidence to try something more ambitious. Harry approached the massive oak tree at the edge of the clearing, placing his palm against its rough bark. If he could soften part of the trunk, even temporarily, it would prove his magic was developing real power.
Think angry thoughts, he instructed himself. Think about Malfoy calling Hermione a mudblood. Think about—
"Spongify!" Harry snarled, pressing his hand against the bark.
A section of the tree trunk roughly the size of his palm suddenly gave way, becoming soft and yielding beneath his touch. Harry stared in amazement as his hand sank several inches into what had been solid wood moments before.
"Finite," he said quickly, not wanting to damage the tree permanently.
The bark snapped back to its original hardness so quickly that Harry had to yank his hand away to avoid getting it trapped. But the brief impression of his palm remained visible in the wood—proof of what he'd accomplished.
Now that's more like it, Harry thought with satisfaction. Hermione's going to be impressed.
His good mood lasted exactly until he tried to cast Diffindo for the first time.
If Spongify had been frustrating, Diffindo was downright humiliating. Harry had been practicing for nearly an hour on a fallen branch, trying to achieve even the most basic cutting effect, and had managed nothing more than a few scratches in the bark.
"Diffindo!" he said for what felt like the hundredth time, slashing his hand through the air in what he hoped was an appropriately cutting motion.
The branch remained stubbornly intact.
Maybe I need a different emotional approach, Harry reasoned. Anger worked for Spongify, but cutting requires precision, not just force.
He tried channeling determination instead of rage, focusing on the mental image of the spell slicing cleanly through the wood. Still nothing.
Frustration. Concentration. Even a brief attempt at channeling the protective feelings he had for Hermione and Ginny, thinking that perhaps the desire to defend them might sharpen his magical focus.
Nothing worked.
Harry slumped against a tree, exhausted and dispirited. The sun was already well past its zenith, and he'd been practicing for hours with little to show for it beyond one successful Spongify and a persistent headache.
Maybe this is my limit, he thought glumly. Maybe partial lycanthropy doesn't actually make me some kind of magical prodigy. Maybe I'm just deluding myself.
As if summoned by his dark thoughts, his familiar companion slithered into view—the grass snake with the distinctive marking on its head that had been watching his practice sessions. But something was different about it today. The snake seemed... bigger. Longer.
Have you been growing? Harry wondered, studying the creature. It was definitely larger than when he'd first noticed it days ago.
The snake flicked its tongue, tasting the air, then moved closer to Harry. When it reached his outstretched hand, it paused and—to Harry's surprise—gently touched its nose to his fingertip.
The contact sent a small jolt through Harry, not painful but... energizing. Like a tiny spark of the same wild magic.
You've been absorbing my magic, Harry realized with sudden clarity. When I practice here, when I release that energy, you've been... feeding on it somehow. Growing stronger.
The snake seemed to nod. The encounter gave him an idea.
If my magic is affecting you, maybe I'm approaching this wrong. Maybe I don't need to force the spells to work. Maybe I need to... share the magic instead of hoarding it.
Harry picked up the fallen branch again, but this time he didn't focus on cutting it. Instead, he thought about the magic flowing through him, about sharing that energy with the wood itself, about working with it rather than against it.
"Diffindo," he said softly, extending his awareness toward the branch.
A thin line appeared along the wood's surface—not quite a cut, but a definite mark.
Better. Try again.
This time, Harry imagined his magic as a river, flowing from him into the branch, carrying his intent along with it. The severing charm wasn't about force; it was about convincing the wood that it wanted to be cut.
"Diffindo," he repeated, his voice calmer now.
The branch split cleanly in half with a sharp crack that echoed through the clearing.
Harry stared at the two pieces in his hands, hardly believing what he'd accomplished. "Bloody hell," he whispered. "I actually did it."
The snake—which had been watching the entire process—flicked its tongue again in what Harry chose to interpret as approval.
Right, Harry thought, energy restored by his success. Let's see what else I can manage.
The next hour passed in a blur of experimentation. Once he'd grasped the concept of working with his magic rather than forcing it, the spells came much more easily. He cut several more branches with Diffindo, each attempt cleaner and more precise than the last. He softened rocks, tree bark, and even a patch of hard earth with Spongify, then restored them all with finite.
Most encouraging of all, his range with Accio began to improve. By focusing on creating a connection with the objects he wanted to summon—imagining his magic reaching out to touch them—he managed to call objects from nearly ten feet away.
Still limited to small things, he noted, successfully summoning a fallen acorn from the base of a distant tree. But definitely progress.
As the afternoon wore on, Harry became increasingly aware that his magic was having effects beyond the spells he was deliberately casting. The grass around his feet seemed greener and lusher than it had that morning. Several birds had begun perching closer to the clearing, their songs seeming more melodious. Even the air felt different—cleaner, more vibrant somehow.
Something to discuss with Hermione and Ginny tonight, he decided. They need to know what I'm becoming capable of.
As if responding to his thoughts, his snake companion moved closer again, settling into a loose coil near Harry's feet. The creature was definitely larger than it had been that morning—at least six inches longer, with noticeably brighter coloration.
"You like my magic, don't you?" Harry asked softly. "It's making you stronger."
The snake raised its head, fixing Harry with an unblinking stare that seemed far too intelligent for a simple grass snake. Then it slowly nodded.
Parseltongue, Harry realized with a start. I haven't tried speaking to it in Parseltongue. Maybe...
"Can you understand me?" he hissed in the serpent language.
The snake's entire posture changed, becoming more alert and focused. "Yesss," it replied, its voice a soft sibilant whisper in Harry's mind. "You give power. Make strong. Make smart."
Harry's eyes widened. Not only could the snake understand him, but his magic had apparently enhanced its intelligence to the point where it could hold a conversation.
"How long have you been watching me?" Harry asked in Parseltongue.
"Since first power-sharing," the snake replied. "When light-magic came from angry-thoughts. Good power. Growing power. Make all things better."
"Are there others?" Harry asked. "Other animals that have been affected?"
"Some," the snake admitted. "Birds sing stronger. Plants grow faster. Small creatures move quicker. You make life-place better."
Harry sat back on his heels, overwhelmed by the implications. If his magical practice was creating a zone of enhanced life around the clearing, what did that mean for his future? For the people around him?
No wonder Hermione thinks my abilities are developing exponentially, he thought. I'm not just learning new spells—I'm becoming a magical environment unto myself.
The sun was beginning to sink toward the horizon, painting the clearing in shades of gold and amber. Harry realized he'd been practicing for the better part of six hours, though it felt like minutes.
Time to head back, he decided reluctantly. Mrs. Weasley will be expecting me for dinner, and I need to tell Hermione and Ginny about today's progress.
As he stood to leave, the snake moved closer once more.
"Will you return?" it asked in Parseltongue.
"Yes," Harry promised. "Tomorrow, probably. There's still more to learn."
"Good," the snake replied, settling back into its coil. "Power grows stronger with practice. You become what you are meant to be."
What I'm meant to be, Harry mused as he made his way back toward the Burrow. The question is, what exactly is that?
Tomorrow
The next day found Harry even deeper in the woods than usual, having decided that his regular clearing might be too close to the Burrow for what he had planned. After yesterday's success with Spongify and Diffindo, he felt ready to push his boundaries further, and something told him that today's experiments might be... louder.
Four more days until the World Cup, Harry thought as he settled into a new, more secluded grove surrounded by ancient oaks. Plenty of time to figure out what else this lycanthropic condition can do.
He'd started the morning with his usual routine—Lumos variations, improved Accio attempts, and a few experimental Spongify casts that were becoming almost second nature. But about an hour into his practice, Harry began to notice something odd. There was a pressure building in his chest, different from the warm flow of magic he'd grown accustomed to. This felt more... like energy that wanted to be expelled rather than channeled.
What the hell is that? Harry wondered, pressing a hand to his sternum where the pressure seemed strongest.
The sensation reminded him of something, though it took several minutes to place the memory. The night Lupin had transformed—the way the werewolf had thrown back his head and released that bone-chilling howl that had echoed through the Forbidden Forest. That sound had been more than just noise; it had been magic given voice, power expressed through vocal cords rather than wands or gestures.
Vocal magic, Harry mused, the idea taking root. I've been focusing on hand movements and visualization, but what if there's another way?
He thought about the few times he'd heard animals use their voices magically. Fawkes the phoenix. The terrifying scream of a mandrake. Even Hagrid's rooster, whose crow could apparently kill a basilisk. If magical creatures could channel power through sound, why couldn't he?
Worth a try, Harry decided, though he made sure to check that he was truly alone. The last thing he needed was to accidentally hurt someone—or draw unwanted attention to his location.
Harry started small, just trying to feel the magic in his voice. "Lumos," he whispered, but instead of focusing the spell through his hand, he tried to push it through his vocal cords.
Nothing happened, but the pressure in his chest seemed to respond to the attempt, shifting and building slightly.
Interesting. Try again.
"Lumos," he said with more volume, this time consciously directing the magic upward through his throat.
Still no visible effect, but Harry could swear he felt something—a resonance, like his voice was trying to harmonize with frequencies he couldn't quite hear.
For the next twenty minutes, Harry experimented with different approaches. He tried channeling various spells through his voice, attempted to replicate the deep, rumbling quality he remembered from Lupin's howl, and even sang a few bars of a random song to see if melody had any effect.
This is ridiculous, he thought after a particularly futile attempt at magical humming. I sound like a tone-deaf—
The pressure in his chest suddenly spiked, cutting off his internal monologue. Harry gasped, one hand flying to his throat as the sensation intensified. It wasn't painful, exactly, but it was definitely demanding attention.
Something wants out, he realized. Something that has nothing to do with the spells I've been trying to cast.
Harry took a deep breath, then another, trying to center himself. Instead of forcing the pressure down or trying to redirect it into familiar magic, he decided to simply... let it happen. To see what his body was trying to do naturally.
He tilted his head back slightly, the way he'd seen Lupin do that night, and opened his mouth. At first, only a soft exhalation emerged. Then, gradually, a low rumble began to build in his chest.
That's it, Harry thought with growing excitement. That's what wants to come out.
The rumble grew stronger, deeper, until it was less a sound than a physical vibration that Harry could feel in his bones.
And then, without conscious decision, Harry roared.
It wasn't loud—barely more than a strong speaking voice—but the effect was immediate and startling. The sound seemed to ripple outward like a stone dropped in still water, visible distortions in the air that made the trees in front of him waver and blur. A small rock near his feet cracked with a sharp ping, and several branches overhead swayed as if touched by a sudden wind.
Harry cut off the sound abruptly, staring in amazement at the evidence of what he'd just done.
"Bloody hell," he whispered, his voice slightly hoarse. "That actually worked."
The pressure in his chest had eased significantly, like steam released from a kettle, but Harry could feel it already beginning to build again. Whatever this ability was, it seemed to have its own rhythm, its own needs that were separate from his other magical abilities.
Let's see what happens if I try it again.
This time, Harry was ready for the sensation. He let the rumble build more gradually, paying attention to how the sound formed in his chest and throat. When he released it, the roar was slightly stronger, more controlled, and the visible shock waves extended further.
A bird that had been perching nearby took flight with an alarmed squawk. Several leaves fluttered down from the trees above. And Harry was sure he heard the distant sound of small animals scurrying away through the underbrush.
Definitely dangerous, he noted with a smile. If this gets much stronger, I could seriously hurt someone.
But the potential for control was there. Unlike his emotional-dependent wandless magic, this vocal ability seemed to respond primarily to technique and practice. Harry spent the next hour experimenting with different approaches—varying the pitch, duration, and intensity of his roars to see how they affected the results.
A deep, sustained rumble created steady pressure waves that could bend grass and rattle loose stones. Short, sharp barks produced focused bursts that could crack rocks or snap small branches. And when he really let loose—though he was careful to aim away from anything living—the roar could strip bark from trees and send shock waves through the ground that he could feel through his feet.
This isn't just sound, Harry realized during a brief rest. It's weaponized magic. Like a sonic cannon or something.
The thought was both thrilling and sobering. Harry had always known that his lycanthropic condition was making him physically stronger, but this was the first ability that felt truly dangerous—not just enhanced, but potentially devastating if misused.
I need to be careful with this one, he decided. Very, very careful.
As if summoned by his thoughts, his snake companion slithered into view, though it stopped much further away than usual and seemed visibly agitated.
"Sorry," Harry said in Parseltongue, genuinely contrite. "I didn't mean to scare you."
"Loud-magic," the snake replied, its mental voice tinged with nervous respect. "Power-sound that hurts small-ears. Dangerous-useful, but needs careful-control."
"You're right," Harry agreed. "I'll be more careful when you're around."
The snake seemed to consider this, then moved slightly closer. "Practice-makes-better," it observed. "But warn first. Small-creatures need time to flee."
Even the snake knows this is serious business, Harry thought. That's... actually quite reassuring. At least someone around here has common sense.
For the remainder of the afternoon, Harry worked on developing finer control over his newfound ability. He practiced creating roars of different intensities, learning to modulate the power from barely perceptible vibrations to tree-shaking blasts. He experimented with duration, discovering that he could sustain the effect for nearly thirty seconds before his throat began to ache.
Most importantly, he practiced stopping. Unlike some magic that could be difficult to cut off once started, the vocal ability responded immediately to his conscious control. A blessing, considering how destructive it could be if left unchecked.
Still, Harry thought as he prepared for one final test, I wonder what would happen if I really cut loose. If I used everything I've got.
The temptation was strong, but Harry resisted it. He was already exhausted from hours of practice, and his throat felt raw despite the magical nature of the ability. More importantly, he suspected that a full-power roar might be heard all the way back at the Burrow—or worse, might cause damage that would be difficult to explain.
Instead, he settled for a controlled demonstration aimed at a dead tree on the far side of the grove. Harry took a deep breath, centered himself, and released a roar that incorporated everything he'd learned about the ability.
The effect was spectacular. The shock wave struck the dead tree with visible force, stripping away every piece of loose bark and sending a shower of debris cascading to the forest floor. The trunk itself remained intact, but it now looked as if it had been sandblasted clean.
"Impressive," Harry murmured, his voice barely a croak after the sustained effort.
The snake, which had prudently retreated to a safe distance, slithered back with what appeared to be reluctant admiration.
"Strong-magic," it acknowledged. "Much stronger than before-sounds. You become powerful-hunter."
Powerful-hunter. Is that what he was becoming? Some kind of predator?
No, Harry decided firmly. I'm becoming someone who can protect the people I care about. There's a difference.
But as he made his way back toward the Burrow, Harry couldn't shake the feeling that this new ability was just the beginning. The pressure in his chest had returned, though weaker than before, and he suspected that with more practice, the roar could become even more devastating.
The question is, he thought, stepping carefully over a fallen log, how much power is too much?
It was a question that would have to wait for another day. Right now, Harry was looking forward to dinner, a hot bath, and the chance to tell Hermione and Ginny about his latest discovery. He had a feeling they were going to have some very strong opinions about his new vocal abilities.
Especially if I demonstrate them too close to the house, Harry realized with a wry grin. Mrs. Weasley would probably have my head if I shattered her good china with an experimental roar.
The mental image of explaining that particular accident kept Harry entertained all the way home, even as part of his mind was already planning tomorrow's practice session.
Four more days until the World Cup, he reminded himself. And then back to Hogwarts, where I'll have to be much more careful about this kind of experimentation.
Best to make the most of his remaining time at the Burrow. After all, who knew when he'd get another chance to discover terrifying new magical abilities in relative privacy?
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