Harry Potter:Raised by Wolves

Harry could hardly believe it when it finally sank in.

He hadn't been expelled. He wasn't even being punished. He had inflated Aunt Marge, and the Ministry wasn't even giving him a slap on the wrist. But that wasn't the best part.

There were still three weeks until school started, and he would be spending them in Diagon Alley. Alone. Unsupervised—at least, as unsupervised as the thirteen-year-old savior of the wizarding world could get—free to do whatever he pleased, as long as he stayed within the confines of the alley. No teachers watching over him "for his own safety," no Dumbledore with his annoyingly knowing gaze, no Mrs. Weasley herding him around like one of her own. Not even Ron and Hermione. He could go wherever he liked and not have to explain his actions to anyone.

He had never had such freedom before. Harry couldn't wait to make the most of it.

For the first few days, Harry didn't push the boundaries. He spent most of his time sitting at a sunny table outside Fortescue's, doing his homework with a tall ice cream sundae at his side, charmed not to melt too quickly. It was a nice change from doing it under his blankets in the dead of night—and it gave him the chance to see if anyone was actually keeping an eye on him. It was the perfect spot for people-watching, to keep track of anyone who might linger too long or glance his way too often.

He was noticed—of course, he was noticed, he was Harry Potter—but no one seemed to be following him. Even when he left the ice cream parlor and went exploring, he didn't see anyone keeping watch. He stuck to places he was expected to visit, of course: Quality Quidditch Supplies, Flourish and Blotts, Gambol and Japes. Normal haunts for a thirteen-year-old wizard.

Only after finishing all his homework and making absolutely sure he wasn't being secretly supervised did Harry start to widen his exploration. In the past, whenever he'd been to Diagon Alley, whichever adult was with him had always wanted to get school supplies and leave as quickly as possible. Honestly, Harry didn't blame them, especially when he was with the entire Weasley family. But Diagon Alley was so much bigger than he had ever realized. There were all kinds of side streets filled with small shops and vendor stalls. Sure, you could buy potion supplies, spellbooks, and brooms—but you could also buy enchanted jewelry, elaborate sweets, bespelled household objects, and a million other things in between. It made sense, Harry supposed; wizards didn't have many places to shop, and you couldn't just conjure everything you needed. Diagon Alley was the biggest shopping district wizards had. And now, it was all open to him.

Harry couldn't resist. With a bag of assorted sweets from Sugarplum's in hand, he meticulously scoured every inch of the alley from one end to the other, determined to uncover all its hidden treasures. He bought a practice Snitch at Quality Quidditch Supplies and a self-inking quill from Scribbulus Writing Instruments. He spent almost an hour in the back of the Magical Menagerie, talking to the snakes and convincing himself that he couldn't take them all home. He bought a new pair of glasses at a small stall next to Madam Primpernelle's—indestructible, self-adjusting prescription, with weather-repellent charms. His prescription hadn't been updated since he'd first gotten his glasses at age seven, and he had forgotten what it was like to actually see clearly.

After a while, wandering the alley made his heart ache. All these new and wondrous things were items he probably would have grown up with if he had been raised in a wizarding family. No wonder Ron didn't care much about the alley—it was all old news to him. He wondered if Hermione had ever come here without them and done the same thing he was doing now. He doubted it—she would have talked his ear off about it if she had. But how could she not be curious? There were so many incredible things, things he would buy… if he had anywhere to put them. He imagined Aunt Petunia's face if he started filling his room with magical posters, enchanted clocks, or a dragon statue that actually breathed fire.

If he ever went back to Aunt Petunia's. Minister Fudge had said they were fine with taking him back at the end of the school year, but Harry doubted they were happy about it. Then again, he didn't exactly have any other options.

As he browsed the shelves of Wiseacre's Wizarding Equipment, Harry absently daydreamed about what his bedroom might look like in a wizarding house—his parents' house. Would it look more like Ron's? He snorted to himself; hopefully far less orange than Ron's.

Would he have a favorite Quidditch team, with posters on the wall? A shelf full of spellbooks, with little moving figurines on the ledges? A fancy perch for Hedwig, with a self-filling water bowl? Bedsheets that changed color when they needed washing? (You really could get everything in Diagon Alley.)

He pushed the thought away, biting his lip against the unexpected swell of emotion. Desperate for a distraction, he turned his gaze to the display in front of him.

Wand Holsters, for the canny witch or wizard—never worry about losing your wand again!

They were thin leather tubes, with straps to secure them at each end. They came in several different lengths and colors. At first, Harry thought it was to match the length of the wand, but upon reading the description, he realized they were designed to be worn either on the forearm or the calf, depending on the user's preference. Apparently, they would accept wands of any length, even if they were longer than the holster itself.

He glanced down at his wand, sticking out of the pocket of his jeans. His mind flashed back to all the times he had dropped it, had it fall out of his pocket, or simply hadn't had a comfortable place to keep it. Maybe buying one of these holsters wouldn't be such a bad idea after all.

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