Disclaimer: Don't even try telling me I own Harry Potter. I can't even own the Harry Potter action figure I bought. My sister stole it.

Harry was never sure when it started.

He worked out in the yard every day, but he never knew when the wind started to speak to him.

Not magic, never magic, just power. And Harry had it.

The wind whispered secrets. Secrets of those who lived around, secrets of those far away, secrets that Harry should never have known. Secrets of power.

But Harry never thought Magic. Couldn't think magic. Vernon never approved of Magic. Not even in a show. No Magic.

The wind bespoke of the letters with the owls, and what the letters would say. The wind spoke of what would happen when he didn't open the letters.

The wind spoke of the coming of Hagrid, and the reactions he would get.

As time passed, the wind spoke of many, many things, and Harry knew many, many things. However, what the wind never spoke of was the movements of Voldemort. Harry knew better then to think of him as anything but. He was Voldemort, his chosen and used name. What else would one call such as him?

Harry listened to the wind when he flew, he listened to the wind when he fought.

Most importantly to him, he listened to the wind when it promised him peace at the end of the war. The wind didn't tell him that his peace came in the form of death. Harry found he didn't care.

A/N another that I'm considering turning into a longer fic. Let me know if I should?