The grey heir

The morning after Harry's silent expedition to the third floor was, for all appearances, utterly ordinary. No alarms had been triggered. No teachers suspicious. No owls screeched with news of magical theft or dark objects gone missing. If anything, the hum of Hogwarts life buzzed on as always—carefree, oblivious.

Harry took his place at the Slytherin table with practiced ease. He looked relaxed, a little sleepy even, but not too much to draw attention. His robes were crisp, his bag packed. No one suspected a thing. The stone had been replaced. The protections intact. The cloak now lay folded and hidden beneath his mattress—its silken weight as familiar now as breath.

Across the table, Daphne Greengrass passed him a plate of toast. "You always look far too calm for a first-year," she noted, eyeing him over her teacup.

"Maybe I'm just pretending to know what I'm doing," Harry said with a smirk. "Fake it until you hex it?"

That earned a quiet chuckle. The two had fallen into easy rhythms over the past few days—talking about spells, Hogwarts' oddities, even trading idle observations about the other Houses. Harry, feigning a fresh-eyed curiosity, often prompted Daphne to explain the finer quirks of magical customs. It made the ruse believable.

Further down the table, Tracey Davis flipped through a Defense text, while Blaise quietly read the Daily Prophet.

But peace was never built to last.

Ron Weasley, seated at the Gryffindor table, had been glaring at Harry all morning. The tension simmered visibly across the Great Hall. Finally, over the clatter of breakfast, he slammed his fork onto his plate.

"I still don't get why they let someone bring a snake to school," he said, louder than necessary. "It's dangerous. What if it bites someone? Or worse—what if he uses it to attack someone?"

Several students turned toward him. Harry didn't look up from his plate at first, but Daphne had already paused mid-chew.

Neville Longbottom, red-faced, whispered, "Ron, stop it. You're making a scene."

"I'm telling the truth!" Ron snapped. "He talks to it. It's not normal! Bet it slithered straight out of Knockturn Alley."

Harry finally looked up, calm and sharp-eyed. "You're right, Weasley," he said coolly. "I do talk to it. It listens better than you."

Ron stood, face flushing with anger. "What's that supposed to mean? Think you're better than everyone just because you've got a pet monster?"

"I think I'm better than someone who complains to the professors about everything he doesn't understand," Harry replied, voice still smooth. "Which, by the way, is quite a list."

That drew snickers from the nearby tables. Even a few Gryffindors looked unsure.

"Oh, yeah?" Ron's voice cracked. "Why don't you say that again without your Slytherin friends to protect you?"

"I don't need protection from someone who can't finish a sentence without whining," Harry shot back.

Just as Ron's voice rose for another retort, Professor Snape swept in like a thundercloud between the two tables.

"Mr. Weasley," he drawled coldly, "if you wish to perform a comedy routine, do it outside the Great Hall. And Mr. Potter—while your sharp tongue might amuse your tablemates, it is not welcome at breakfast."

Ron sat down, muttering something that earned him a warning glance from Professor McGonagall farther up the table.

Harry gave a short nod, eyes unreadable. Snape's gaze lingered on him for a heartbeat too long, then shifted to Ron.

"Ten points from Gryffindor for disrupting the peace," Snape added with quiet venom. "And five from Slytherin for responding to idiocy."

That stung Harry's pride more than he admitted, but he said nothing. The quarrel was over—for now. Ron glared as if daring Harry to continue it outside.

Harry didn't flinch. He smiled faintly and returned to his breakfast.

Daphne leaned over, murmuring, "I've seen duels between second-years with less tension."

"I'm not dueling a loud tomato," Harry muttered. "Besides, he'd cry if I won."

Neville sighed and sank into his seat, shoulders tense.

The Hall buzzed again, but the spark of the quarrel lingered like smoke after a spark.

Daphne leaned over and whispered, "You handled that well. Though I'm surprised you didn't hex him."

"Too public," Harry replied, sipping his pumpkin juice. "And I don't like wasting good spells."

The rest of breakfast passed with less fire, though the undercurrent remained. Harry knew how to play the long game. And Weasley was already losing it.

He turned back to Daphne. "So. What do you think of Flitwick's idea about charm layering? Is that normal for first years?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Definitely not. He's testing us. I kind of like it."

"So do I."

Nothing had happened.

Nothing at all.

And that was just how Harry Potter wanted it.

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