The grey heir

The castle had gone still.

Hogwarts always slept in layers—stone by stone, breath by breath. But Harry had learned its rhythm now, as only someone who had lived it all once before could. He lay awake in his bed, beneath the emerald canopy of the Slytherin dorms, listening to the faint ripple of the Black Lake against the enchanted windows.

Tonight was the night.

He had known about the Philosopher's Stone long before Hagrid mentioned vaults or secrets. He'd known because he remembered. Remembered a life that ended in flame, in sacrifice, in victory. And he remembered the price of trusting too late.

This time, he would move first.

Silently, Harry sat up. With practiced ease, he activated the passive illusion he had woven earlier—a sleeping replica of himself breathing softly beneath the sheets. Iskaris stirred inside his sleeve.

"You know the plan," Harry whispered.

A silent coil, a flick of tongue.

He retrieved the Cloak of Death, not the watered-down heirloom of legend, but the true Hallow granted to him by Death Himself. As the fabric touched his shoulders, reality folded. His footsteps ceased to exist. Wards bent around him like reeds in the wind.

No one would know he was there.

---

He glided through the halls of Hogwarts like a phantom.

Filch prowled the fourth-floor staircase with a lantern, but the light dimmed as Harry passed. Mrs. Norris's ears twitched, but she turned away. Peeves floated by, muttering in rhyme, and completely ignored the shadow that wasn't.

When he reached the third-floor corridor, the ancient wards shivered, but did not stop him. The great wooden door creaked open at his touch, but only to him. Inside, Fluffy—the monstrous three-headed dog—lay curled in a pile of fur and fang.

He did not play a flute. He did not cast a charm. The Cloak of Death was enough.

He walked past the sleeping guardian without a sound.

---

One by one, the rooms yielded.

Devil's Snare recoiled without touch. Flying Keys hung still in the air as he passed. The giant chess pieces never moved. The potion riddle room remained untouched.

He reached the final chamber without challenge. No alarms. No intervention.

The Mirror of Erised stood tall in the center of the room, moonlight cutting across its gilded frame. Harry stepped before it and looked into his own eyes.

There was no fantasy.

Only the truth.

His hand reached into his pocket, and the Philosopher's Stone—warm and pulsing with soft red light—was there.

He placed the replica he had enchanted onto the ground beneath the mirror, identical in size, weight, and magical resonance. It would fool even Dumbledore.

There was no sense of triumph.

Only control.

---

Harry returned to his bed in the Slytherin dormitory, his cloak neatly folded beneath his pillow, the Stone hidden within a pocket dimension stitched deep into the lining.

No trace. No tremor. No suspicion.

The illusion still breathed beneath the covers beside him until he dispelled it with a thought.

He stared at the ceiling of ancient stone, listening to the heartbeat of the school again.

"You made the first move," he whispered.

Iskaris hissed softly from beneath his robes. The game has begun.

Harry closed his eyes.

This time, no one would play him.

To be continued...