Harry Potter:Raised by Wolves

Harry's blood boiled when he thought about it.

The more he connected the dots, the more certain he became—Dumbledore was the only person who could have placed both the block and the curse on him.

But why?

Dumbledore had clearly been training him for something—that much had been obvious since the day they met.

But why did that involve cutting him off from his family magics?

Why place a curse that would cause his core to implode when he turned seventeen?

What plans did Dumbledore have for him that didn't allow him to grow into a happy, healthy adult wizard?

Harry resolved to be cautious around the headmaster from now on.

If Dumbledore was not as he seemed, then who else might have ulterior motives?

No.

He couldn't go down that road.

He'd drive himself crazy wondering who he could trust.

Remembering what Farlig had said about learning to sense his own magic, Harry had eventually found a book on magical cores during another trip to Flourish and Blotts.

Now, he had notes on that too.

It would take time, but apparently, wizards could learn to sense their own magic—which was how wandless magic became possible.

The idea of being able to perform spells without a wand intrigued him.

Though, hopefully, now that he had his holster, he wouldn't have to worry about losing it.

Eventually, however, his brain began to ache from the influx of new knowledge.

That said, he found it easier to sit and read than he ever had since starting at Hogwarts.

It was like being back in Muggle primary school, when he had spent most of breaktime hiding in the library, taking refuge in the written word.

He wondered if his recent struggles with attention span were due to the curse that had made him more impulsive.

He hoped so.

He was used to pretending to get lower grades to avoid making Dudley angry, but at Hogwarts, he had actually struggled to keep his grades average.

A pang of dread settled in his chest as he realized—he'd have to start pretending again.

Otherwise, Dumbledore would know something was different.

Leaving his books securely hidden at the bottom of his trunk, Harry stepped outside, blinking at the bright sunshine.

Maybe he had spent too much time indoors.

With his hands in his pockets, he wandered aimlessly down Diagon Alley, intent on picking up where he had left off before his trip to Gringotts.

Wiseacre's had been hardly the end of the alley—there was so much more he hadn't explored.

He bought a glass bottle of cold pumpkin juice, sipping as he walked, his eyes roaming the shopfronts with mild curiosity.

There were plenty of places in Diagon Alley that held no interest for a thirteen-year-old—offices, specialty stores, furniture shops—but every now and then, he came across something interesting.

The toy shop caught his attention.

He only looked through the window—he was too old for toys.

But a part of him wondered what it would have been like to grow up with magical ones.

Further down, he passed a tattoo parlor.

That, he was definitely too young for.

But the moving artwork in the window was fascinating.

Maybe, when he was older, he'd get a wizarding tattoo.

The further he walked, the more the shops seemed to cater to a different clientele—not the kind of places families shopping for Hogwarts supplies would need.

One shop in particular caught his eye.

Silverling's Wizarding Fashion.

The blue-painted storefront displayed mannequins dressed in both traditional robes and modern wizarding attire.

Harry looked down at himself.

His jeans barely stayed up with his belt, the cuffs rolled several times to keep from tripping over them.

His oversized t-shirt hung halfway down his thighs.

All of his clothes were like this—cast-offs from Dudley.

At thirteen, Harry could fit into clothing that Dudley had outgrown at seven.

He could change that now.

Stepping into the shop, his palms were sweaty, his nerves jangling worse than they had in the back room of Gringotts.

He pushed the anxiety away and strode resolutely towards the menswear section.

No more Dudley's hand-me-downs.

He was a respectable young wizard with his own money, and he was going to dress like it.

The shop looked like the kind of place where the cool pureblood and half-blood kids at Hogwarts would shop.

Parvati and Lavender had probably been here before.

The clothes were definitely wizarding, but nothing like his school uniform.

According to the labels, many had built-in charms—dirt-repelling, self-mending, size-adjusting.

It was all overwhelming for Harry, who had barely been shopping in the Muggle world, let alone the wizarding one.

At that, a thought occurred to him.

One that almost made him question whether the spell making him impulsive had really been removed.

A slow grin spread across his face.

It was about time.

He only bought a few things—

A pair of self-mending jeans, a comfortable pair of black dragon-hide boots, and a jacket with built-in warming and cooling charms to adjust to the weather.

When he left the shop, he turned back towards The Leaky Cauldron, already piecing together a plan in his head.

When he stepped into Gringotts, his stride was far more confident than it had been the last time.

To his delight, he spotted Farlig behind the same desk as before and approached.

"Good morning, Farlig! I hope your gold flows rapidly," he greeted, remembering what he had read in his book about goblin customs.

Farlig blinked, clearly surprised.

Then, his mouth stretched into a toothy grin.

"Good morning, Mr. Potter. My gold flows well, and I guard yours faithfully," he returned the greeting.

"How can I help?"

Harry smiled.

"Can I make a withdrawal?

"But in Muggle money this time?"

Surely Gringotts had to have some kind of currency exchange, right?

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