Harry Potter: Raised by Wolves.

Harry bought a glass bottle of cold pumpkin juice and sipped from it as he walked, eyes roaming the shop fronts with mild interest. Being thirteen, there were a lot of places in Diagon that he had zero interest in — offices and specialty stores and places selling furniture — but every now and then he came across something interesting. The toy shop caught his attention, though he only looked through the window; he was too old for toys, even if part of him did wonder what it would have been like to grow up with the magical ones. There was a tattoo parlour as well, which he was definitely too young for, but looking at the artwork was fun. Maybe when he was older, he'd get a tattoo. The wizarding ones moved.

The further he went, the more the shops seemed to cater for a different clientele; they were more off the beaten path, not the kind of things families shopping for Hogwarts supplies would need. He stopped outside of a blue-painted shop with the words 'Silverling's Wizarding Fashion' above the door. The window held mannequins wearing both regular robes and the more muggle-style clothing that younger wizards and witches wore on a day-to-day basis. Harry looked down at himself. His jeans were only held up by his belt, rolled up several times at the ankle so he didn't trip over them, and his t-shirt hung halfway down his thighs. All his clothes were the same; at one point in time, they had all belonged to Dudley. Harry at thirteen could fit into clothing that Dudley hadn't worn since he was seven.

He could change that, now.

When he stepped inside the shop, his palms were sweaty and his nerves racing even more than they had been in the back room of Gringotts. He pushed the anxiety away, striding resolutely towards the menswear side of the shop. He had no reason to wear Dudley's cast-offs now. He was a respectable young wizard with plenty of money, and he could buy himself clothes that fit.

It looked like the kind of place that the cool pureblood and half-blood kids at Hogwarts would shop. Perhaps Parvati and Lavender had been in there. The clothes were definitely wizarding wear, but it wasn't anything like his school uniform. Many of them had in-built charms according to the labels; dirt repelling, or self-mending, or size-adjusting. It was all a bit overwhelming for Harry, who had barely been shopping in the muggle world, let alone the wizarding one.

At that, he had a thought that almost made him wonder if the spell making him impulsive hadn't been removed after all. A slow grin spread across his face; it was about time, really.

He only bought a couple of things at Silverling's — a pair of jeans that promised to be self-mending, a pair of comfortable black dragon-hide boots, and a jacket with in-built warming and cooling charms depending on the weather. When he left the shop, he turned back in the direction of the Leaky Cauldron, already pulling together a plan in his head.

When he made it to Gringotts, he stepped inside, his stride far more confident than it has been the last time. To his delight, he saw Farlig behind the same desk as before, and approached. "Good morning, Farlig! I hope your gold is flowing rapidly," he greeted, remembering what he'd read in his book about goblins. Farlig blinked for a moment, surprised, then gave a smile that showed all his teeth.

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

"Can I make a withdrawal? But, in muggle money, this time?" he requested. Surely Gringotts had to do some sort of currency exchange?

Farlig nodded. "Of course, Mr Potter. If you would consent to a scan?" Harry nodded, letting Farlig check his identity through his magic. "Excellent. And how much will you be withdrawing today?"

"Um. Let's say… five hundred pounds." He'd never even seen that much muggle money in his life, except for when Dudley opened his birthday and Christmas cards. But he knew the rough 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 future spending rate.

Farlig didn't bat an eyelash at the amount. "As you wish, Mr Potter. One moment please." He typed something into his old-fashioned typewriter, then pulled a lever. Crisp muggle bank notes began stacking on the desk in front of him. "Here you are, Mr Potter. Five hundred pound sterling." He passed the substantial stack to Harry, who shoved it securely in his pocket. "If I may make a suggestion, Mr Potter?" "Absolutely," Harry replied. The goblin hadn't steered him wrong yet.

"Twilfitt and Tattings makes a bottomless bag, which can carry far beyond its usual capacity, yet never weighs more than its empty state. I believe it's popular among young people these days." Farlig gave a shark-like grin, 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 acknowledgement.

Harry took a detour to Twilfitt and Tattings, purchasing a bottomless bag in the style of a black leather messenger bag, fairly unremarkable but stylish in its simplicity. Twilfitt assured him it would hold up to thirty times its natural capacity in size, and up to a hundred kilos in weight. Harry couldn't ever imagine needing to carry a hundred kilos worth 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 on his way up to his room. 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'd ever had that fit him before were his school robes, and the few items of Dudley's clothing that Hermione had once experimented with Shrinking charms on. He'd never had brand new jeans before in his life. He actually looked his age for once, rather than a ten year-old playing dress-up.