Harry Potter:Raised by Wolves

As they turned to leave, Harry reached out instinctively. "Wait! Don't—don't tell Dumbledore. Don't let him know."

Susan and Hannah exchanged a glance before looking back at him.

"Dumbledore holds too many seats that aren't rightfully his," Susan said darkly, a knowing glint in her eyes. "Don't worry, Harry. Your secret's safe with us."

As he watched the girls walk away, Harry blinked, bewildered. "When you said there were others, I didn't realize there were that many."

Neville grinned sheepishly. "Yeah, well. We're the year for it. Like I was saying, it's our job to secure the family's future. They want to make sure we have the best opportunities to start networking. Have you ever noticed how most of the Slytherins leave me alone? Even Malfoy's not as bad with me as he is with the rest of you. Though this year, he only really seems to be after Ron."

Harry had noticed that too. Malfoy barely spoke to him unless Ron started the fight. Instead, he had taken to giving Harry these calculated looks across the room, like he was trying to figure him out.

"If this whole heir thing keeps the Slytherins off my back, it might be worth it after all," Harry teased, pulling the book a little closer.

Neville laughed. "I don't think even being the Potter heir could fix that completely."

When Gorrak had warned Harry to be careful with his magic in the months following the removal of the block, Harry hadn't expected it to be itchy.

It constantly felt like he was vibrating out of his skin, his magic building up and begging to be used. He was picking up spells in class faster than he ever had before—sometimes even faster than Hermione. He would have to get a handle on that, or someone would notice.

For some reason, walking seemed to help. Most nights, Harry would slip on his invisibility cloak and sneak out of the common room, roaming the halls of Hogwarts in the darkness. For once, he wasn't even up to anything—walking just soothed him. The castle soothed him.

Deep down, he wondered if it had something to do with being the heir of Slytherin, if the castle recognized him somehow. It sounded ridiculous, but people always said Hogwarts felt alive.

He had taken his cloak off as he wandered through the courtyard, enjoying the cool breeze ruffling his hair. He knew it was foolish. There was a murderer out there looking for him, and here he was, strolling around alone at night. But he just couldn't sit still. He'd rather walk for an hour or two than spend the whole night tossing and turning. Besides, with the Dementors around, Black wouldn't be getting into Hogwarts.

A flash of silver caught his eye, and Harry swore under his breath as he rounded a corner—straight into familiar blond hair.

"What are you doing out after curfew, Potter?"

"I could ask you the same thing, Malfoy," Harry shot back.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "I don't have a crazed serial killer after me."

"Careful, Malfoy, you're starting to sound like you care."

Malfoy flinched, then scowled. "Just because I hate you, Potter, doesn't mean I want to see you murdered."

That made Harry grin, though he wasn't quite sure why. "I was just out for a walk. Feeling restless."

"Feeling restless, he says," Malfoy muttered, glancing skyward in exasperation. "Just do bloody laps in the common room!"

"Well, what's your excuse, then?"

"None of your business," Malfoy snapped.

The two boys stared at each other in the silence that followed, locked in a stalemate.

Then, an idea struck Harry—one that might've been very stupid.

"Well met, Heir Malfoy," he said, bowing slowly.

Malfoy blinked, caught off guard. "The rumors are true, then," he murmured.

Ever so slowly, inch by inch, the Malfoy heir sank into a similar bow, though the motion was slightly stiff thanks to his arm in a sling. "Well met, Heir Potter."

They straightened up, neither sure what to say next. Harry had thrown off the rhythm of their usual interactions, and the shift was palpable.

"It's Heir Black, too," Harry said impulsively, not entirely sure why he was telling Malfoy of all people.

Malfoy's eyes widened a fraction. "How—oh, of bloody course," he muttered, shaking his head. "Heir Potter-Black. I should've known."

The look on his face was almost amusing enough to make Harry throw out his other two titles just for the reaction.

"Well, that'll shake things up," Malfoy continued. "At least it'll take two of Dumbledore's proxy seats away. Though I don't know if it's worse to let you have them." He made a noise of distaste.

"It won't be," Harry assured him. Then, remembering what Hannah had said earlier, he met Malfoy's eye for the briefest of seconds. "We don't need any more seats under Dumbledore's control."

Malfoy actually looked speechless.

Harry wished he had a camera.

"You are making things interesting, aren't you, Potter?" Malfoy mused, his voice oddly soft.

Harry smirked. "All the same, it won't do me any good if I'm dead. Toddle off to your little snake pit, will you?"

"Only if you slither back to your lion's den," Harry retorted.

Malfoy let out a soft laugh as he turned away.

Once he was alone again, Harry pulled his cloak back over his shoulders and headed toward Gryffindor Tower, an odd spring in his step.

Of all the things he had learned since his birthday, one was proving to be more bewildering than all the rest combined.

Maybe—just maybe—he actually quite liked Draco Malfoy.

When he wasn't being a prat.

Hogsmeade Weekend

Everyone in third year was practically falling over themselves with excitement at the announcement of the first Hogsmeade weekend.

Except, of course, for Harry Potter.

"It's fine, really. You go have fun," he insisted for what felt like the hundredth time, shooing Ron and Hermione toward the portrait hole. "Tell me all about it when you get back."

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