The grey heir

The sun filtered gently through the enchanted windows of the Slytherin dormitory, glinting faintly off the green-glass lanterns and watery ceiling light of the lake beyond. Harry woke quietly, already dressed and composed before most of his year-mates stirred.

Daphne was waiting in the common room, seated near the hearth with a cup of tea. She looked up as he approached and nodded in greeting.

"Ready for the Gryffindor clash?" she asked, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

Harry gave a shrug. "Hard to say if it'll be a class or a duel. But I'm curious about Quirrell."

"He's always twitchy," Daphne noted.

They made their way to breakfast together, joined briefly by Tracey who commented on the owl post gossip and a second-year Slytherin getting hexed for challenging a Prefect. Their conversation turned back to the morning's Transfiguration class, where Professor McGonagall had delivered a sharp lecture on the principles of change, transformation matrices, and magical stability. Her presence was commanding, and Harry had found himself genuinely intrigued by the subject, especially when she demonstrated turning her desk into a wild boar and back with a flick of her wand.

After a quiet breakfast, they headed to Transfiguration first, where Professor McGonagall ran a strict but impressive class. Only afterward did they make their way to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom.

---

Professor Quirrell greeted the combined Gryffindor and Slytherin class with his usual awkwardness. The stammer, the tremor in his fingers—it was all present.

"T-today we'll b-be reviewing shield spells and assessing your r-r-reflexes," he said. "A simple casting of Protego and r-reactive blocking techniques."

As the lesson progressed, Quirrell wandered the rows, offering advice. When he neared Harry's desk, his tone grew slightly smoother.

"Potter," he said. "W-would you mind stepping up for a demonstration?"

Harry met his gaze calmly. "Of course, Professor."

As Quirrell raised his wand, Harry felt the distinct prickle of mental pressure—Legilimency. But this was different. Darker. A foreign will beneath the professor's skin.

Harry did not flinch. He focused and deliberately surfaced only mundane thoughts:

> "I wonder if there'll be homework. I should review the shield spell before next class. This desk is a bit wobbly."

The pressure faded. Quirrell blinked, clearly disappointed.

"Excellent composure," he muttered, then added in a quieter tone, "You've practiced, haven't you? Shield spells?"

"A bit," Harry replied nonchalantly.

Quirrell's eyes lingered on him. "Perhaps... if you're interested, I could recommend a few readings. Historical applications of Protego Maxima. It's a useful defense, even if advanced."

Harry gave a polite nod. "I'd like that, Professor."

Quirrell gave a tight smile and moved on.

No one else in the room seemed to notice.

Daphne glanced sideways at Harry as they sat back down. "He seems... odd, doesn't he?"

Harry nodded. "Nervous. But I guess that's just how he teaches."

---

After class, the corridor buzzed with conversation. As the Gryffindors drifted away, Harry and Daphne lingered behind.

That's when Draco Malfoy approached, hands in his robes, posture confident.

"Potter," he said with a nod. "You handled Quirrell well. Not everyone can manage that."

Harry returned the gesture coolly. "Thank you."

"I've been watching," Malfoy continued. "You're not like the rest. You don't stumble around pretending to belong. You make people come to you."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Is that what you do?"

Draco smiled faintly. "Sometimes. I've got a few friends—Theo and Blaise. We're not fools, and we're not loud. We think about the long game."

"And you're inviting me to join?"

"Consider it," Draco said. "You're Slytherin. That means something. People are already watching you."

"I'll think about it," Harry replied evenly.

"Good," Draco said. "We don't beg. We offer."

As Draco turned, Ron Weasley's voice cut through the hum of the corridor.

"Oi! Talking to him now, are you?"

Harry turned to face the redhead, who was glaring at him from a few feet away.

"What's your problem?" Harry asked.

"You're chumming around with Malfoy now? You're supposed to be decent. Not like them."

Harry crossed his arms. "So I'm supposed to hate everyone you don't like?"

"He's a slimy git!" Ron snapped. "And half the snakes in that House are from families that backed You-Know-Who. Probably the same sort that got your parents killed—"

"You don't know anything about my parents," Harry said sharply. "And you definitely don't know me."

Hermione, nearby, looked between them nervously. Neville shifted uncomfortably.

Daphne said nothing—but her gaze was locked on Ron, cool and unreadable.

Ron looked like he might say more, but Harry's calm stare seemed to give him pause. He muttered something and stormed off.

Harry exhaled slowly and turned to Daphne. "Well, that went well."

"You didn't hex him," she said. "That's restraint."

"Barely," Harry muttered, and they walked back toward the dungeons, leaving the murmurs behind them.

---

To be continued...