Harry Potter: Raised by Wolves.

He had some spells to practice. He wouldn't worry about Sirius Black, for now — like he'd said, the man was hardly going to pop up in the middle of Diagon Alley to grab Harry. If no one else seemed to be worried enough to have someone watch Harry, then he wasn't going to worry about it.

He was, however, going to worry about what Malfoy meant by the year being interesting. He was weirdly happy about having had an entire conversation with the other boy without either of them threatening to hex the other, but the blond's words about Ron settled heavy in his chest. The last thing he wanted was to make his friend feel uncomfortable, but he wouldn't do that at the expense of his own happiness.

Harry shook his head, trudging back up to his room and trying to keep his mind on the spells, and which to practice first. He'd deal with Ron when he got there. As for Malfoy — maybe he'd misjudged him.

Time would tell, he supposed.

According to the books, the easiest way to become familiar with your magical core was meditation.

No wonder the spells on him had made him impulsive, restless. He never would have been able to do it, even if he'd had the urge.

With the spells gone, however, Harry found it easy to sink into his own mind, his breathing steady and his eyes closed. It was a little like the days back in his cupboard; falling into his imagination to pretend he was literally anywhere other than crammed under the Dursleys' staircase. Pretend he wasn't in pain, wasn't starving, wasn't cold.

Except the difference here was that he wasn't creating anything — his mind was empty and still. At least, he tried to be. It was hard, shoving away every little thought that crossed his mind. But after several days of dedicated practice before bed, he was starting to get the hang of it. He relaxed his shoulders against the headboard, trying to sink deeper into his body. He could almost feel it, a warmth running through him, a spark. The book said he had to find that spark and follow it back to his core.

The book also said it was incredibly difficult, and took time.

Somewhere, Harry thought he could see a faint glow of light in the corner of his vision; a strange concept with his eyes closed. He tried to focus on it, draw it closer — and then, outside the room, there was a loud bang and a grumbled curse.

Harry's concentration was lost. He scowled to himself, opening his eyes. When he glanced at his watch, he realised it was already nearly midnight — too late to try again. He'd just have to accept that progress for now, and keep trying tomorrow.

It wasn't going to happen overnight, he reminded himself. These things took practice.

But he couldn't help but feel like there was an hourglass somewhere, grains of sand running out far too quickly, counting down to the day when he would no longer have the freedom for practice and time.

Dumbledore

—

if

it

truly

was Dumbledore, though he couldn't think of any other options — would eventually find out that Harry not only knew about the spells, but had broken them. He highly doubted he'd be able to play dumb until he was seventeen. Sometimes he doubted he'd be able to play dumb for more than a week after getting back to Hogwarts. But if there was one thing he knew, it was that he couldn't reveal his hand too early. He needed more information.

He needed to make sure no one could ever stifle his magic in the same way ever again.

Shuffling down to rest his head on the pillow, Harry closed his eyes, determination still tight in his jaw. It was too early for a plan yet — he still didn't know for sure who he was planning against — but he had time to prepare. He was only thirteen. No one would be expecting much of him yet.

That would be their mistake.

.-.-.

At long last, Harry's peace was broken by the arrival of the Weasleys and Hermione on the morning of August 31st. He found them outside of Fortescue's, ice creams in front of them while Harry wandered over from having just been in Flourish and Blotts again. Ron had even more freckles than usual, and Hermione's brown skin seemed to have darkened several shades. They beamed at him, Hermione grabbing him in a tight hug as soon as he was close enough. "We wondered where you were, mate!" Ron exclaimed, patting him on the back as Harry sat down. "We went to the Leaky Cauldron, but Tom said you'd already left."

"I was just wandering," Harry said with a shrug. "Got all my school things last week, so I haven't had much else to do lately." He wasn't ready to tell his best friends about what he'd been up to in the last three weeks. Not until he knew who he could trust. "How was Egypt? And France?"

"Never mind that," Hermione waved off. "Did you really blow up your aunt, Harry?" "I didn't exactly do it on purpose," Harry replied, rolling his eyes. "She's fine now. The ministry got it all sorted out." Of course Fudge wasn't going to expel him when some sort of madman was after his skin.

"It's not funny, Ron!" Hermione insisted, while Ron roared with laughter. "Harry could've been expelled!"

"Yeah, but he wasn't," Ron retorted, still grinning.

"What's with all the books, Hermione?" Harry asked, quickly changing the subject. She had a huge stack of books by her side; far more than should be on her school list. "Oh, well I'm taking more new subjects than you, aren't I?" she replied, pointing out which subject each book was for. Harry's jaw dropped.

"How is it even possible to take that many?" The form McGonagall had them fill out asked for two additional subjects, three at maximum. Hermione was taking five.

"I've got it all sorted out with Professor McGonagall, don't worry," Hermione said dismissively. "Now, Ron and I were just talking — I've still got some money left over from my parents, for an early birthday present, and I was thinking about getting an owl."

"There's a creature shop over there," Harry replied, pointing to the Magical Menagerie. He'd spent quite a bit of time in there, talking to the snakes.