Raised By Wolfstar: Slytherin Harry Potter And The Deathly Hallows

Chapter One: In Memoriam

(Because neither Harry or any of his friends are in the canonical chapter one, my re-write version would play out near identically and so I will be skipping it. Chapter two also doesn't have much to change the plot, but I did add a handful of changes as well some lines to help new readers know of the different main characters and plot points. Most changes start with the the next chapter and the chapter after that. If anyone needs a recap on what happens in chapter one, a good one can be found here:

https://harrypotter.fandom.com/wiki/Harry_Potter_and_the_Deathly_Hallows?so=search#Chapter_1:_The_Dark_Lord_Ascending)

Harry was bleeding. Clutching his right hand in his left and sweating under his breath, he shouldered open his bedroom door. There was a crunch of breaking china. He had trodden on a cup of cold tea that had been sitting on the floor outside his bedroom door.

'What the—?'

He looked around, the landing of number four, Privet Drive, was deserted. Possibly the cup of tea was Dudley's idea of a clever booby trap. Keeping his bleeding hand elevated, Harry scraped the fragments of cup together with the other hand and threw them into the already crammed bin just visible inside his bedroom door. Then he tramped across to the bathroom to run his finger under the tap.

It was stupid, pointless, irritating beyond belief that he still had four days left of being unable to perform magic...but he had to admit to himself that this jagged cut in his finger would have defeated him. He hadn't been properly taught how to repair wounds this deep, and nearly any attempt he had made at repeating healing spells he had witnessed had been a failure. Now that he came to think of it—particularly in light of his immediate plans—it seemed a serious flaw in his magical education. Making a mental note to ask Tracey or Remus how it was done, he used a large wad of toilet paper to mop up as much of the tea as he could, before returning to his bedroom and slamming the door behind him.

Harry had spent the morning completely emptying his school trunk for the first time since he had packed it six years ago. At the start of the intervening school years, he had merely skimmed off the topmost three quarters of the contents and replaced or updated them, leaving a layer of general debris at the bottom—old quills, desiccated beetle eyes, single socks that no longer fit. Minutes previously, Harry had plunged his hand into this mulch, experienced a stabbing pain in the fourth finger of his right hand, and withdrawn it to see a lot of blood. He now proceeded a little more cautiously. Kneeling down beside the trunk again, he groped around in the bottom and, after retrieving an old ribbon with yellow letters that read "Support Diggory, the True Champion", a cracked and worn-out Sneakoscope, and a gold locket inside which a note signed R.A.B. had been hidden, he finally discovered the sharp edge that had done the damage. He recognized it at once. It was a two-inch-long fragment of the enchanted mirror that his dead guardian and godfather, Sirius, had given him when he first started having to spend long periods of time alone with his Aunt and Uncle. Harry laid it aside and felt cautiously around the trunk for the rest, but nothing more remained of the enchanted two-way mirror except powdered glass, which clung to the deepest layer of debris like glittering grit.

Harry sat up and examined the jagged piece on which he had cut himself, seeing nothing but his own bright green eye reflected back at him. Then he placed the fragment on top of that morning's Daily Prophet, which lay unread on the bed, and attempted to stem the sudden upsurge of bitter memories, the stabs of regret and of longing the discovery of the broken mirror had occasioned, by attacking the rest of the rubbish in the trunk.

It took another hour to empty it completely, throw away the useless items, and sort the remainder in piles according to whether or not he would need them from now on. His school and Quidditch robes, cauldron, parchment, quills, and most of his textbooks were piled in a corner, to be left behind. He wondered what his aunt and uncle would do with them; burn them in the dead of night, probably, as if they were the evidence of some dreadful crime. His Muggle clothing, Invisibility Cloak, potion-making kit, certain books, a pile of photographs Harry had of his friends and family, a stack of letters, and his wand had been repacked into an old rucksack. In a front pocket were the Marauder's Map and the locket with the note signed R.A.B. inside it. The locket was accorded this place on honor not because it was valuable—in all usual senses it was worthless—but because of what it had cost to attain it.