The grey heir

The flickering fire in the Headmaster's tower bathed the ancient room in warm light. The hour was late, and the castle had quieted to soft murmurs of shifting staircases and whispering portraits. But Albus Dumbledore remained awake, his fingers steepled beneath his chin, his blue eyes fixed on a silver instrument turning slowly on his desk.

It was keyed to one individual.

Harry James Potter.

In a small enchanted mirror, the boy sat beside Daphne Greengrass in the Slytherin common room. He was reading. Focused. Unflinching. Calm.

Too calm.

Dumbledore let out a breath, not quite a sigh.

He'd seen children like that before—sharp, quiet, and watchful. Not because they were naturally withdrawn, but because they'd learned that speaking too loudly, trusting too easily, or standing out could bring pain. He had always known the Dursleys would not be warm, but he had not predicted this... resilience.

Not cold. Not cruel. Just… contained.

"He is guarded," Dumbledore whispered to himself, reaching for a lemon drop and then setting it down again untouched. "But not broken."

He stood and moved to the wide windows overlooking the grounds.

He survived. And that in itself is a testament.

The brilliant green eyes had looked up at him during the sorting with quiet curiosity. No awe. No fear. Just... a steady calm. Dumbledore had expected confusion. Questions. But instead, Harry had accepted the truth of magic and the world around him with unusual ease.

Because he's a survivor, Dumbledore thought. Not because he's hiding anything.

He'd convinced himself of that.

Of course Harry was clever—Lily had been one of the most gifted witches of her age, and James had always been a natural in combat and charm magic. Their son was bound to be sharp. But Dumbledore saw more than talent. He saw calculation. Thoughtful observation.

That, too, could be explained.

The Dursleys.

They had raised a boy who had to learn the world through closed doors and whispered arguments. Who had read books left forgotten and watched life through keyholes. The kind of upbringing that taught a child to mask everything—to become invisible until it was safe to breathe.

This was not cunning born of ambition. It was survival.

Dumbledore returned to his chair, picking up the small mirror once again. He watched as Harry tilted his head toward the Greengrass girl, offering a mild comment. There was nothing out of place. He was friendly. Curious. Quiet. Reserved.

He had not reached out to Ron Weasley. Had not fumbled through the train looking for help. Had instead found himself surrounded by pure-blood Slytherins and fit in with unexpected ease.

That, too, Dumbledore had explained away.

"Perhaps he seeks protection," he muttered. "Or perhaps… he simply followed the path that opened before him."

There was no darkness in him. No trace of the boy's unwanted connection to Voldemort—not yet.

And so, Dumbledore waited.

Not with suspicion. But with concern. With hope that time, and the warmth of Hogwarts, would help the boy open up—trust the right people.

He reached for a blank piece of parchment and began a slow letter to Minerva.

> Watch him closely, Minerva, but gently. He is not a soldier yet. He is still a boy.

He paused before signing.

> And he must not know how closely he is being observed.

Albus Dumbledore signed it with a tired hand and let the fire consume it in a flash of green.

Across the castle, Harry Potter felt a brief tug of awareness in the back of his mind—an echo of the castle's ancient gaze shifting.

He smiled faintly, and turned the page.

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To be continued...