Harry Potter: Raised by Wolves.

"None of your business," Malfoy said immediately. The two boys stared at each other in the beat of silence that followed, at a stalemate. Suddenly, Harry got an idea. It might've been a stupid one.

"Well met, Heir Malfoy," he said, bowing slowly. Malfoy stared, blinking incredulously.

"The rumours are true, then," he murmured. Ever so slowly, inch by inch, the Malfoy heir sank into a similar bow, though he was hampered slightly by his arm in a sling. "Well met, Heir Potter."

He straightened up. They stared at each other some more, neither sure what the next step was. Harry had gone and thrown off the rhythm of their usual interactions. "It's Heir Black, too," he threw out impulsively, not sure why he was telling Malfoy of all people. The blond's eyes widened a fraction.

"How— oh, of bloody course," he muttered, shaking his head. "Heir Potter-Black. I should've known." At the look on his face, Harry was almost tempted to throw out his other two names, as well. "Well, that'll shake things up a bit. 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 disgust.

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

He was sure

he'd actually rendered Malfoy speechless. He wished he had a camera for proof. "You are making things interesting, aren't you, Potter?" Malfoy's voice had softened. Harry's lips quirked in a half-smile. "All the same, it'll do you no good if you're dead. Toddle off to your little lion's den, now, won't you?"

"Only if you slither back to your snake pit," Harry retorted, grinning. That actually earned a soft laugh as Malfoy turned away.

Once he was alone, Harry threw his cloak over his shoulders, heading back in the direction of Gryffindor tower with an odd spring in his step. Of all the things he'd learnt since his birthday, one was proving to be more bewildering than all the rest put together. Maybe, just maybe, he actually quite liked Draco Malfoy. When he wasn't being a prat.

.-.-.-.

Everyone in third year was practically falling over themselves with excitement at the announcement of the first Hogsmeade weekend. Except, of course, Harry Potter.

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

"We can always go next time, Harry, really," Hermione started, but Ron tugged on her arm.

"Look, the man said leave, so we'll leave," he said. "We'll bring you back loads of sweets, Harry."

"See you at the feast tonight!" It was Halloween. Harry's favourite day of the year just kept getting better and better.

"You sure you don't want company, Harry?" That was Neville, his scarf already wrapped around his neck. Harry smiled, though it didn't reach his eyes.

"Really, Nev, I'm alright. Probably just gonna hang out in the library." He was getting worse than Hermione on that front. Though she didn't seem to be up to her usual standards this year — probably because her schedule had her in about six places at once.

"If you're sure. Happy Samhain, Harry." Neville had been teaching Harry all about the traditional wizarding holidays; Samhain; Yule; Beltane. Through him, Harry knew that some of the students would be lighting a bonfire that evening in the stone circle. He wished he could join them without giving up his secrets to Dumbledore. Maybe next year.

The path to the library was a familiar one, and Harry headed for a little-used back corner of the enormous room. From an offhand comment Hermione had made, Harry learned that the Hogwarts library kept yearbooks of all the previous classes From the dust layering the shelves, it clearly didn't get much foot traffic. There were rows and rows of black leather-bound books, each with a decade of dates on the spine. Harry found the one for graduating classes 1970-1980, easing it from the shelf and carrying it to the nearest table.

The section for 1978 was easily found, and Harry gasped at the first page he opened. There, near the bottom of the second page, was a picture of a redheaded teenage witch with luminous green eyes and a bright smile. There was a small amount of text beneath her picture.

Evans, Lily

Gryffindor House Head Girl

Top of class in Charms, Arithmancy

Harry hurriedly flicked through several pages until he came to the 'P' names. His breath caught in his throat. He could certainly see why so many people said he looked just like his father.

Potter, James

Gryffindor House

Head Boy

Quidditch Captain (Chaser) Top of class in Transfiguration

Gently, Harry ran his finger over his father's face, eyes burning as he looked at that rakish grin. He was only eighteen, and yet only a few years away from death.

Absently, Harry scanned the rest of the page, remembering what Hannah Abbott had said about all the purebloods trying to have kids that went to school at the same time. He saw a Macmillan — Ernie's dad, maybe? Or an uncle? — And a Nott, and— wait a second.

Snape, Severus

Slytherin House Top of class in Potions

Sure enough, there was a picture of a surly-looking teenager with a hooked nose and black hair that hung into his eyes. His Potions Master, age eighteen. He knew, of course, that Snape hated his father — he hadn't realised they'd gone to school together.