Harry Potter:Raised by Wolves

Farlig nodded. "Of course, Mr. Potter. If you would consent to a scan?"

Harry nodded, allowing Farlig to confirm his identity through his magic.

"Excellent. And how much will you be withdrawing today?"

"Um… let's say five hundred pounds."

He had never even seen that much Muggle money in his life—except for when Dudley opened his birthday and Christmas cards. But he had a rough idea of the exchange rate, and he hoped it would be enough for what he had in mind.

Besides, after the portfolio the goblins had sent him detailing all his assets, he wasn't exactly worried about his spending habits.

Farlig didn't so much as blink at the amount.

"As you wish, Mr. Potter. One moment, please."

He typed something into his old-fashioned typewriter, then pulled a lever.

A stack of crisp Muggle banknotes began piling neatly onto the desk in front of him.

"Here you are, Mr. Potter—five hundred pounds sterling."

He passed the substantial stack to Harry, who shoved it securely into his pocket.

"If I may make a suggestion, Mr. Potter?"

Harry perked up immediately.

"Absolutely."

The goblin hadn't steered him wrong yet.

"Twilfitt and Tattings sells a bottomless bag—capable of holding far beyond its normal capacity, yet never weighing more than when it is empty.

"I believe it's quite popular among young wizards these days."

Farlig's grin was sharp, his words casual, but his gaze knowing.

Harry grinned back.

"Thank you for the recommendation, Farlig. May your vaults ever be full."

"And yours, Mr. Potter," Farlig replied, bowing his head in acknowledgment.

Harry made a detour to Twilfitt and Tattings, where he purchased a black leather messenger bag—fairly unremarkable in appearance, but stylish in its simplicity.

The shop assistant assured him it could hold thirty times its natural capacity in size and up to a hundred kilos in weight.

Harry couldn't imagine ever needing to carry a hundred kilos of anything, but it was good to know for the future.

His plan in place, Harry returned to The Leaky Cauldron, waving a cheerful hello to Tom behind the bar as he headed upstairs.

There, he deposited his purchases and changed into his new clothes.

"Oh, that's much better, dear," the mirror in his room complimented, making him beam despite himself.

The only clothes he had ever owned that fit him properly were his school robes, and the few Dudley cast-offs that Hermione had once experimented on with Shrinking Charms.

He had never had brand-new jeans before.

For once, he actually looked his age, rather than a ten-year-old playing dress-up.

His smile wouldn't budge as he grabbed his new bag, the wad of Muggle cash, and his Invisibility Cloak.

He briefly remembered the warnings about venturing into the Muggle world, and a pang of guilt surfaced.

But he pushed it away.

Unlike most wizards, he was perfectly comfortable navigating Muggle London.

And he was long, long overdue for a visit.

. . . .

Sneaking out into Muggle London with his Invisibility Cloak was almost insultingly easy.

He ducked into a public restroom, pulled off the cloak, and stuffed it into his new bag.

From there, he walked to the nearest tube station, his heart pounding with adrenaline at the blatant rule-breaking, and bought a day travel card.

Glancing at the tube map, he checked his journey, then stepped confidently through the barriers, blending effortlessly into the flow of people.

No one looked twice at him.

No one stared at his forehead.

No one whispered about him from several feet away.

No one treated him like anything other than an ordinary boy.

It was refreshing.

When Harry next emerged above ground, he found himself right in the middle of the hustle and bustle of Oxford Street.

The sheer energy of the city was overwhelming, and he took a deep breath, steadying himself.

He could do this.

This was his only chance to do this—he had to make it count.

He looked up at the familiar names of the stores—brands he recognized from Dudley's clothes.

Harry smiled.

He could definitely do this.

. . . .

Four hours later, Harry sat outside a café in Covent Garden, sipping on a chocolate milkshake, his earlier nerves long gone.

It turned out, he liked shopping.

Once he got the hang of it, at least.

Figuring out what kind of clothes he liked—given entirely free rein, with no restrictions, and no outside influence—had taken a little time.

But once he started finding things that made him happy, he was off.

In London, no one questioned a thirteen-year-old boy shopping alone with seemingly endless cash.

In London, no one questioned anything.

He was down to his last thirty pounds, which surprised him.

He hadn't expected to get quite so carried away.

But after years of living in hand-me-downs, how could he not?

For the first time, he had a full wardrobe of his own choosing, his own style.

He knew he'd grow out of it all sooner rather than later—if he ever actually had that growth spurt—but that's what spells were for.

Besides, there was plenty more money in his vault.

Checking the time, he realized he should head back before Tom started wondering where he was.

Finishing off his milkshake, he shouldered his bag and set off toward the tube station.

As he walked, he made a mental note to get Farlig a gift or some kind of reward for the tip about the bag.

He dreaded to think how he would have managed to sneak back into The Leaky Cauldron while carrying all his purchases the Muggle way.

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